The battle raged on within the ballroom—Akatsuki locked in combat with the Executioner, while elsewhere Dazai faced Mard Geer in a clash that threatened to twist fate itself.
The Executioner wore a pair of brass knuckles pulsing with a dark, oppressive aura. Akatsuki moved lightly across the shattered floor, stepping side to side, his head swaying subtly as if following an unheard rhythm. The Executioner lunged, throwing a brutal punch.
Akatsuki ducked by the width of a single strand of hair.
The fist missed—but the shockwave did not. It tore through the room, hurling overturned tables and shattered chairs across the ballroom. Akatsuki straightened and chuckled.
"Looks like Ghost never taught you how to aim," he said calmly. "Assassination's a poor career choice for someone like you—too emotional."
A guttural growl echoed from beneath the Executioner's mask as he swung again. Akatsuki sighed, almost bored, then moved. He swept a kick into the Executioner's right leg, disrupting his stance. In the opening that followed, Akatsuki seized the man's arm and drove his dagger toward a vital point.
The Executioner grunted in pain as Akatsuki disengaged, flipping backward and landing atop a cracked table.
"I'll be honest, kid," Akatsuki continued, voice casual despite the blood staining his clothes. "You're dull. I thought that first attack might lead somewhere—but I guess that elemental trick was your only real hit. I don't usually kill those weaker than me, so why not run back to mama and get some rest?"
The Executioner stared at him in silence, killing intent flaring—but reason won out over pride. With a low snarl, he hurled a smoke bomb at the floor. Thick haze swallowed the space, and when it cleared, he was gone.
Akatsuki yawned, bruised and bleeding, then turned his attention toward the far end of the ballroom. His expression shifted.
"Hm?" he murmured. "What's that?"
Mard Geer stood surrounded by multiple copies of himself. Before them, Dazai remained still—eyes closed, posture relaxed. As he exhaled, faint vapor spilled from his lips, heavy with adrenaline.
The first wave charged.
Before they could reach him, the ground trembled. Jagged spikes erupted upward, impaling the clones where they stood. Dazai stepped forward through the carnage, unhurried.
The second wave raised their hands in unison, condensing fire mana into a massive sphere that scorched the ceiling itself. They hurled it toward him.
Mard Geer watched intently. Victory felt close—or so he believed.
Dazai reached behind him, tilting his head slightly. His fingers closed around empty air—then slashed.
The fire sphere split cleanly in two.
The clones' eyes widened in shock.
That hesitation cost them everything.
Dazai surged forward. From his grasp, a massive blade revealed itself—black obsidian steel veined with a slow, crimson aura. With a single sweeping motion, he carved through the remaining clones as though they were nothing more than mist.
Mard Geer clicked his tongue, teeth grinding.
"That cursed bastard… I searched souls—entire kingdoms—for that blade," he snarled. "And yet fate throws it back in my face once more. The sword of the prince who ruled the abyss… Tenebris."
The copies were gone.
Dazai stood before Mard Geer in silence, his presence heavy—less a man than an approaching calamity.
Then, from the lingering mist of the vault, another figure emerged.
A gold chain hung loosely at his waist. Old scars traced his neck and arms, half-hidden beneath his clothes. Short black hair framed sharp gray eyes as he hefted a sack over one shoulder.
"Hm," the man muttered. "Looks like I won't have to fight after all. Damn it—Hebi should handle his own messes. Tch… 'speculum's orders,' my ass."
Akatsuki tilted his head slowly, eyes narrowing.
"…What is this?" he asked.
"Armed and Dangerous?"