The clang of steel rang again, echoing like a scream across the blood-soaked courtyard. Sparks lit the air as blades clashed, then separated with brutal force.
Ozvold stumbled back a few paces, his chest heaving. Sweat streaked down his face, dragging with it the painted smile that now smeared and cracked across his cheeks like a broken mask. The crimson eyeliner bled into his eyes. His grip on the sword trembled—but not from fear.
It had been years since he held a blade.
And yet, the weight of it in his hand felt… familiar. Too familiar. Like an old friend returned after a lifetime of silence. His knuckles whitened as he adjusted his stance.
Before him stood a specter of the past—a puppet sewn in the image of the man who raised him. The man who once showed him how to tie a grip, how to sheath without slicing his palm, how to lower his blade when anger clouded his vision.
His father.
Ozvold watched him carefully. The puppet moved with eerie precision, every motion a reflection of his father's perfect swordsmanship. No hesitation. No wasted energy. It was a dance—mechanical, elegant, deadly.
But it wasn't him. Not truly.
It was just a shadow. A hollow imitation.
And yet…
In the reflection of his own blade, Ozvold saw his own face. Painted, cracked, stained with sweat and sorrow.
Who am I? the question echoed within him like a gong struck in the dark.
He'd been born into the secondary branch of the Edmund family—never destined for glory, never promised a legacy. His mother had died giving birth to him. He had never known her warmth. His father raised him alone, always gentle, always steady. Even when duty demanded submission to the main house, even when servants whispered and nobles scoffed, his father stood tall.
"You may not have their blood," he'd once told him, gently braiding the boy's hair by firelight, "but your worth is not lesser. Work harder. Endure. And the world will see your light."
And Ozvold tried.
Oh, how he tried.
He looked up to Bernard—his older cousin in the main house. Everyone did. Bernard was brilliant, composed, destined for greatness. And yet, Bernard never looked down on him. He never treated Ozvold as inferior. He would visit the secondary wing when others wouldn't bother. He brought Ozvold books. Shared meals. Listened.
He had even given him a gift once—a violin, its wood warm and smooth beneath young Ozvold's fingers.
"I don't know what to do with this," Ozvold had said then, eyes wide.
Bernard had smiled. "Play. And when the world gets too heavy… play louder."
From that moment on, he did.
Every night, while others slept, Ozvold trained. Sword in one hand, violin in the other. He dreamed not of power, but of making his father proud. Of making Bernard proud. Of earning a place in a world that never expected anything from him.
And then the massacre came.
The mysterious illness that consumed the royal family created a storm of paranoia. Whispers turned to accusations. Accusations turned to blood.
The secondary branch was blamed. One by one, his cousins, aunts, uncles—executed. The grounds that once echoed with laughter became silent. Lifeless.
Only he and his father were left.
The light in his father's eyes dimmed. His back, once tall and proud, bent under invisible weight. He no longer played chess. No longer shared his thoughts. He just stared at the walls in silence.
Until that night.
The night Ozvold found him.
Hanging from the rafters of his study. Cold. Lifeless.
Gone.
Ozvold dropped to his knees beneath him, screaming his name over and over, until his throat bled from the effort.
The funeral was a formality—held in a nameless, common cemetery. The act of suicide was declared treason. Dishonor. The last stain on a name already buried in shame.
When everyone left, Ozvold remained.
He knelt before the simple stone. Rain soaked him to the bone. His fingers dug into the wet earth as tears streamed down his face.
"Why?" he whispered. "Why did you leave me? Why did you make me the last?"
He slammed his fist into the ground. "Why didn't you take me with you?"
Then, he stood—and kicked the gravestone with a scream of rage. A crack formed down its side.
"I hate you…" he whispered. "I'll hate you for the rest of my life."
He walked away that night.
No name. No family. No honor.
Only a violin.
Only a broken heart.
He wandered the streets, slept on benches, played music for scraps of bread. The world passed him by—just another shadow in the gutter. He should've died. He wanted to. But he didn't.
Fear kept him alive.
Then came the circus.
A master heard his music one cold morning. Offered him a job—not as a knight, not as a warrior.
As a clown.
It was cruelly perfect.
He didn't need to smile anymore—the paint did it for him.
He wore bright colors, danced on the streets, handed out tickets, and made children laugh. And when the tents closed and the crowd vanished, he played for those too poor to afford joy. Children with hollow eyes. He played until their shoulders relaxed. Until their eyes glimmered.
He survived. That was all it was. Routine. Constant. Not a life—but survival.
Until he met him.
Toki.
The boy with the storm in his eyes and a fire that wouldn't go out.
That night was like any other. The wind howled. The circus lights flickered. And Ozvold had just finished his performance when Toki sat on the bench next to him not to watch the show, but to see him.
Not the clown.
Him.
"You wear a mask," Toki had said quietly, "but your sadness is too loud to ignore."
Ozvold hadn't known what to say. No one had ever looked at him like that before. As though he mattered. As though he deserved to be heard.
Toki was the first.
The first to treat him like a person.
When Toki asked him to join the Order—to be his right hand—Ozvold had refused. He was broken, disgraced. He didn't belong in any division, let alone one meant to stand tall.
But Toki hadn't judged him.
He simply smiled and promised, "Then I'll carry the light until you're ready. I'll bring honor back to the division your father once served. And I'll wait for the day your smile is real."
That promise…
Now, Ozvold stood on the battlefield, his breath coming ragged and hard. He looked across the courtyard and saw Toki—revolver in hand, locked in a deadly dance with the masked Puppeteer.
He was bleeding.
Yet he stood tall.
Still fighting.
Still smiling.
Even now.
Toki… how much pain do you hide behind that smile?
Ozvold's eyes flicked to the other side.
Bernard stood motionless, his battle done, the remains of Corren's puppet disintegrating at his feet.
And he was smiling too.
Not the mask of a commander.
A real smile.
Bernard… how much have you suffered that I never saw?
Tears burned behind his eyes.
"I was selfish," Ozvold murmured. "So sure that I was the only one wronged. The only one in pain. But we've all carried this weight…"
His eyes locked on the puppet again—his father's puppet.
Once, this man had held him after nightmares. Had taught him swordplay under the stars. Had whispered lullabies when fevers made the world spin.
Ozvold's grip tightened.
"I judged you," he said aloud. "I hated you for leaving me behind. But now I see… you were tired. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry I never tried to understand."
He exhaled.
Then, slowly, he dropped into a stance.
The tip of his sword lowered toward the ground. His knees bent. His foot slid back, coiled like a spring. Every muscle in his body screamed.
The puppet moved.
It leapt, sword raised high, aimed for his neck.
Ozvold closed his eyes.
Breathed in.
And stepped forward.
The air cracked.
A thunderclap echoed across the battlefield as Ozvold's blade struck.
Clean.
Precise.
Final.
The puppet's arms spun away like severed branches. Its torso split, unraveling into ribbons of light and dust.
It didn't scream.
It simply… stopped.
And as it crumbled, a voice—warm, familiar—whispered inside his heart.
"Ozy… forgive me. Stay by your commander's side. Your mother would be so proud."
Ozvold's hands trembled.
He lowered his blade.
And for the first time in years, he whispered back, voice breaking:
"I love you, Father."
His lips quivered.
And then curled upward.
A real smile.
Bernard's hand tightened around the hilt of his saber, blood dripping slowly from his earlier wounds. Across the shattered courtyard, Ozvold's shoulders rose and fell with heavy breaths, his violin still clutched in a trembling grip. They both looked at each other—silent, steady—and in that quiet exchange, a shared understanding passed between them.
They were ready to fight again.
But just as they stepped forward—
"Stop," came a firm voice, cutting clean through the smoky air like a blade.
Utsuki.
She stood between them and the battlefield, her dress fluttering faintly in the wind stirred by Toki's movements. Her hands were outstretched, palms open—not in fear, but in solemn defiance.
"This is his fight now," she said, eyes hard with conviction. "As much as I want to protect him… I know if we interfere, we'll only slow him down."
Bernard frowned, his voice low. "You expect us to just stand here and do nothing while he throws his life away?"
"It's not nothing," Elizabeth interjected gently, stepping beside Utsuki. Her dress was torn, and blood traced her cheek, but her poise was unwavering. "She's right. You've fought your battles already. Now it's his turn. If you truly trust him, you'll let him finish this."
Ozvold clenched his jaw. "But—"
"Check on the others," Elizabeth insisted, placing a gloved hand on his arm. "Smith, Lorelay, Felix… they need you now more than he does. Let Toki handle what only he can."
There was a long pause. Bernard exhaled through his nose, slow and reluctant. Ozvold gave Utsuki one last look.
"He'll win," Utsuki said quietly. "My knight is the strongest man here. I'd stake my life on it."
With that, the two men turned and hurried toward their fallen comrades. The mist curled around their legs like ghostly vines as they ran.
The Puppeteer, still standing atop the crumbling stone stage, barely noticed them. His fingers twitched in mid-air, delicately weaving invisible threads. His eyes were locked on one thing only.
Toki.
And Toki—he had changed.
Gone was the restrained, hesitant knight. In his place now stood a shadow draped in black mist, his revolver glinting like a falling star in his right hand. Smoke coiled from his limbs, ebbing and fading like breath in winter. His red coat whipped behind him as he blurred in and out of existence, flickering like a candle flame in a storm.
Bang.
He appeared on the left—fired.
Bang.
Vanished into smoke, reappearing behind the Puppeteer's shoulder—another shot.
Bang.
A direct hit to the ribs, sending splinters of wood and porcelain flying from the monstrous puppet body.
The Puppeteer snarled, swiping at empty air. "You… insufferable little—!"
From beneath his sleeves, he raised both hands. His fingers bent like talons—and with a sickening snap, crimson threads erupted from the limbs of his grotesque puppet. They whipped outward into the air, slicing through it like blades.
From the mist, shapes began to emerge.
First ten. Then twenty. Then fifty.
A hundred.
Faceless puppets. Each roughly human-shaped, their bodies stitched from mismatched cloth and skin, their limbs dangling on invisible threads. They stood in a perfect circle, surrounding Toki entirely. No eyes. No mouths. Just masks—blank porcelain masks cracked at the corners, like the frozen expressions of forgotten souls.
The Puppeteer grinned, sweat rolling down his brow. "This is my final act. The Technique of One Hundred Puppets. I've spent years perfecting it"
Toki didn't flinch.
He simply exhaled, letting the fog around him deepen. Within his chest, the mark of the First Phase pulsed—The Coward. A path mocked by most, feared by few. But now, it shimmered like a beacon in the smoke.
Felix, barely conscious, let out a weak chuckle from where Bernard crouched beside him.
"Incredible…" the old alchemist whispered. "He… he absorbed the ritual completely. No recoil, no collapse. And the Division Mark… it's stabilized. He's achieved the First Phase."
Bernard's eyes narrowed. "That's the Coward, right?"
"Yes," Felix rasped. "But it doesn't mean what people think. The Coward isn't about fear. It's about survival. Adaptation. It's a path that fights dirty… but never gives up."
Back in the circle of puppets, Toki crouched slightly, adjusting the grip on his revolver. His breath slowed. His heart beat in rhythm with the divine current now flowing through his blood.
Monsters like him always want to control the stage, Toki thought. But even a puppet show needs a fire exit.
He vanished again.
The first puppet lunged.
Toki reappeared midair—fired three shots in a triangle pattern. The faceless marionette collapsed in pieces.
Another rushed from behind. Toki ducked, turned—his revolver clicked empty.
The next moment, he wasn't there.
He melted into mist, gliding between the puppets like a shadow on water. His empty gun reloaded itself with smoke, glowing faintly .
As he dashed through the horde, his mind flashed with echoes.
The puppets' movements reminded him of the monsters from the ritual—tentacles, jerking limbs, soulless hunger.
But it wasn't just that.
It reminded him of himself.
Of the coward who had run from death again and again.
And now…
He embraced it.
"I've been afraid all my life," Toki muttered under his breath as he dove, dodged, rolled. "Afraid of failing. Of not being enough. Of losing them again. Of becoming a monster."
Bang. Bang. Bang.
"But maybe… maybe the real strength…"
He flipped midair, his coat trailing behind like the wings of a dying angel.
"…is not in being fearless…"
He landed on one knee, firing point-blank into three puppets.
"…but in fighting anyway."