The other half, the other side, the other mask.
Irises as split three, yet eye as one; the Ruler.
***
Steps cruised through the multitude. There was an overpass with marble columns—as pale as the once-known snow of the Lichtreich—with thousands upon thousands of blades of verdant green grass lining the ground as steady soldiers.
Above the pastures, white draped in red trailed gold. Jugram Haschwalth walked with measured steps, with a crimson cloak as red as the bloody eyes of The Almighty his ceremonial regalia. A schirmmütze bearing the imagery of the Wandenreich. Dew latched onto his boots every step he took, fluttering and brushing against the sides of them.
Unbothered, the Sternritter Grandmaster closed his eyes when reaching a designated portion of the field. It was "designated" because he took familiarity with it, and it was "familiar" because of the event he knew would occur. Common, nearly everyday, with not a single breath of rest to yield from it.
Lo' and behold, a glint of blue filled the periphery of his vision, giving him enough of a warning to know how he would need to act in face of it. A sense of danger struck his veins. Not out of need, not because it was lethal to him, because of something that escaped even his own degree of disclosure.
He flick his right hand. His sword drew. A practiced motion—repeated ad nauseam for the billionth time—perhaps even the ten-billionth time in his history. The Reishi-borne arrow was eviscerated as if it had dissipated in the air, not even a silver gleam of light admitting action was taken.
"Bazz-B." His voice, barely attempting to refrain from sounding refrained, called out.
"Oi, Jugo!" A boisterous voice, and hot-pink hair just as boisterous in its clarity, shouted. A grin turned his face, unworried, possessing no modesty. He held a Reishi crossbow, tellingly pointed at him directly—completely dead on.
"The wind seems to have been a different color today," Jugram said, diverging his attention away. "You should keep a watch of it." He was about to step away, but another shout called for his stop.
"Don't act stupid." Bazz-B placed the weapon on his shoulder, leaning to the side. "You're coming up with more absurd excuses by the day."
"...48,923 times, Bazz-B." Jugram closed his eyes, reciting the number. "48,923 times, we've been through this same process." That wasn't the amount of times he had found the memory invading his dreams, bolstering it to at least a bare minimum of 70,000. "Infighting is not tolerated amongst the ranks of the Sternritters, punished under penalty of death."
"You kept count." His grin seemed to turn more vicious, as if he were an animal. Though, he was the furthest from one. "I heard you had a little personally "ceremony,", and all that jazz with the Sternritters." Bazz-B's gaze lingered on him with a pause. "Even heard you also had a small duel with them."
"Pray tell, where have you come to know this information?" Jugram raised an eyebrow, unperturbed.
"So you do know something about it?" Bazz-B looked as if he had caught a fish; hook, line, and sinker
"I never claimed so," Jugram deftly countered. "Neither am I of any obliged discretion to divulge my opinions upon rumors and gossip." He would definitely find out who had informed Bazz-B, or who had been spouting rumors about it. But what was he expecting? The Sternritters were the Sternritters, the invisible hierarchy was being kept up by an equal invisible rule imposed by himself.
Only himself.
The Schutzstaffel did not give a single moment of their time keeping order, unless some pointed arrow or blade had come their way, and then they would bear up their own arms in holistic vengeance.
"Oh? Is that so?!" Bazz-B grinned wider, a Reishi bolt loading on his crossbow as he lifted it from his shoulder, pointing it toward Jugram, guided by destiny. "Then I've heard enough, give me that duel!" He pulled the trigger, the machination needed to initiate the battle.
The Sternritter Grandmaster rested his palm against his sword's handle, expression furthering into monotony. He saw the bolt become loose, setting its path, and crystallizing its lethality in velocity. However, even with such momentum bolstering its metallic verge, a single slash of his blade would pulverize it into bits.
Before he could complete the motion replayed in his head, Jugram felt a distortion in the air, halting his action before it came into fruition. The bolt continued to come closer and closer to him, almost reaching past the halfway point before—
A crack of Reishi pulsing, coming from above, at a diagonal angle.
It landed on the crossbow bolt, splitting it in half and sending it completely off of its calculated course, overpowering its own Reishi to the point where it dissipated in thin air. The shot from wherever the Reishi bullet came from landed into the ground due to the overkill of force.
"What—?!" Bazz-B's eyes widened in shock, his neck turning to the direction of the external menace. "Who the hell..." His eyes would further widen when he came to see who it was. "That bastard, huh...?"
Atop a cloistered tower jutting up in the distance, he could see who it was. If he couldn't, then Bazz-B would never have had the right to call himself a marksman, because the person who perched atop like a hawk watching over—was one of the Schutzstaffel.
"Lille Barro..." He growled.
True to his words, there stood a dark skin tone man with one eye closed, possessing snow-white hair. In his hand was an oddly-shaped sniper—laid casually by his side—and its barrel still steaming the past story of a once executed shot. Lille Barro, the Schutzstaffel Leader, only regarded him with a side-eye, before turning back to whatever else caught his interest.
"What a piece of work. Guess they call him 'Masterpiece Quincy' for a reason," Bazz-B sarcastically commented, turning back to Jugram—
Or should he say, the empty air?
...A loud cuss was heard.
***
Jugram stared at the shrubbery ahead, regarding with only a glance. There were some brown coils around it, thorned with nature's vices, something he remembered a particular Sternritter tending to. The memory was lost on him, perhaps the piece of information having been rendered useless after hundreds of years.
That was how the Sternritters were, and that was how he was. Tools given sentience and purpose by The Almighty, and once their purpose had run out, they were to return back to Him—melted into their basest materials—and used to craft something new. To return the balance back to its normal state.
While he continued to make it through, lingering a moment longer in his memories, he would come to a stop. Something else had attracted his eye, something which left him raising an eyebrow out of perplexity. Jugram found himself staring at the multitude of pillars hung above a roof, the clearing of a vast garden being surrounded by them.
Underneath one of the pillars, was... somebody. A woman. He didn't remember anybody possessing such... how should he put this? Exotic features? That would be accurate to say, considering she had horns that would only present on Hollows, yet a humanoid body. Was it remnants of a Hollow mask?
She wore a white dress. Her appearance was ravishing. Aside from the horns, those were the only notable features he made out, along with her distinct hair color resembling that of Meninas McAllon, just many pitches lighter.
Her attention was fixated on him. It had come to the Sternritter Grandmaster's attention that she most likely had been gazing at him for a long while, her translucent pink hair billowing in the wind. His eyes narrowed—and in response—the pink-haired woman merely gave him a small wave with a warm smile.
She whispered something.
He could just barely make it out as...
***
A park. They had reached their destination, and broken out of the hellish mire Reunion had created with their savage troops, letting the squadron finally take a breather amongst themselves, and move at a slower pace. Miraculously, no troops had been severely injured under Jugram's commands, much to the relief of Medic who had already applied basic first aid to those who needed it.
"I gotta say, Doctor... that was some insane planning back there." Ace stretched his muscles, a wide smile coming across his features. "After all those years, even with amnesia... still blowing our expectations out of the park. How'd you know everything that was about to occur?"
"It was a hunch," Jugram replied, the articulated response making everybody glance at him weirdly.
"A hunch?" Ace almost felt the urge to lower his shades. "Well, looks to be a one-in-a-millionth hunch." He chuckled. "You'd make the entire Cyclops tribe green with envy."
...Jugram did not know what that was.
"I assume you have Arts similar to them?" Dobermann said, making her curiosities known. "It just... doesn't make any sense. Nobody aside from the Cyclops should have been that accurate with their predictions as you were—unless you had a form of foresight."
"Pardon me for my ignorance," Jugram flashed them a displeased look. "What is a Cyclops?"
"Right, right, amnesia," Ace apologized. "They're a Sarkaz tribe, known for their prophecies. A form of future sight, if you will."
"Intriguing." Jugram's interest was piqued, his eyes opening slightly larger. "These prophecies, how do they work?"
"Beats me, to be honest." Ace shrugged. "Maybe you could ask a Cyclops yourself, either by taking a trip to Sami or Kazdel. Though, with the current conditions in those places, I wouldn't suggest that."
"A large world this is..." Dr. Haschwalth muttered under his breath. For a moment, his mind wandered back to the Cyclops and their future sight, wondering if it was in any way similar to The Almighty. The version he possessed was borrowed from the King of Quincies, though borrowed may not be the correct term anymore with the implications of its rapid occurrences in times of need.
It also provided him with the absorbed Soul King's Reiatsu, a good portion of it. Unfortunately, he still couldn't change the future to his whims.
"With their supposed power, have they come to dominate the land?" Jugram wondered, for the power of future sight was still a powerful one.
Dobermann scoffed. "You're assuming foreknowledge means a guaranteed victory. You need to be able to act on it, and have the strength to do so in the first place. It's not absolute." She tilted her head slightly, scrutinizing him. "You wouldn't happen to have some hidden Arts, would you?"
Jugram paused for a moment. "No." Technically, it wasn't a lie, considering how he doesn't actually possess any form of Arts.
Ace whistled, shaking his head. "If that's true, then you've got one hell of a gut feeling. If I were you, I'd test if that 'hunch' works at the poker table. What do you say? Wanna give it a try sometime?"
Before Jugram could respond, Amiya cut in, her voice soft but firm. "Dobermann, Ace, please. Don't bully the Doctor."
Dobermann raised her hands in mock surrender. "I'm just saying, it's unusual."
Ace grinned, lifting his hands as well. "Hey, I'm just impressed. Besides, the Doctor was a dastardly poker player back then."
Jugram said nothing. Instead, his eyes drifted toward the broken cityscape beyond the park, thoughts coming to a time long since passed. He knew seeing the future would be a cruel ability bestowed upon anybody, with what he had seen. Perhaps a limited access to The Almighty was... preferable.
Before the conversation could continue, the radio on Ace's belt crackled to life.
"—Chernobog remains under control, and recent efforts have been underway to help stabilize the city. The recent conflicts are exaggerated, and there is no cause for panic, for the Ursus Guards have been effectively and modestly—"
The radio Ace had blared, a composed voice from the other side vocalizing the current events of Chernobog through biased, rose-tinted lenses. Whether it was false information purposefully lipped from a lying mouth, or because the news reporter was also being fed with fabricated meals of fiction; no words would save the city now.
"It's all faulty to a ridiculous degree." Jugram mirthlessly scanned the scenery, watching the sparsely populated park that supplemented a small forest. "A city overtaken by a bunch of terrorists. I can't tell whether it speaks of Chernobog's incompetence, or Reunion's prowess."
"Ridiculous? Yeah," Ace agreed, "They're lying as easily as they breathe. But hey, I wasn't expecting much from the Ursus government either."
"Have you a clue how events such as these could have transpired?" Along with the squad, Jugram paced through a delicately paved path leading to the other side of the park, where progress for exfiltration would be made.
"Looks to me they're not taking the Reunion threat seriously," Ace said, shaking the radio in the air as he pivoted his head, stretching it. "The Ursus Guards were being overwhelmed back then."
"So they were thoroughly unprepared." Jugram nodded. "Flawed, unguided, fretful, is this a backwater nation?"
"Ursus? Backwater nation?" He stared at the blonde-haired man with a shocked look. "Far from it. Ursus was—and still is—one of the greatest military powers on Terra."
"Preposterous."
Dobermann interjected, "It may not look like it." Turning Jugram's attention to her. "But Ursus back in its prime was conquering land left and right. You can get a feel of what they were by reading a few past fables."
"And now?" Jugram asked.
"Still competent, but..." Dobermann let her words draw out, gathering her thoughts. "Given the situation, it's a possibility Reunion pulled some strings in the back."
"An unlikely possibility," Ace commented, "but I can't see how else they were able to overrun Chernobog like this. Then there's a Catastrophe rolling across the skies..."
"Ready to wreak havoc and devastation," Jugram completed it for him. "Though, I have not seen a Catastrophe for myself." Breaking from the cracks of neutrality, curiosity became laced in his words.
"Catastrophes? Hoo boy." Ace let out a breath. "Let me tell you, everywhere they walk, expect buildings to be leveled into nothing but rubble. They come in all shapes and sizes; hurricanes, tornadoes, storms, blizzards—so on and so forth."
"Natural calamities," Jugram concluded.
"Exactly." Dobermann nodded. "Along with a dosage of Originium, you're likely to become Infected even if you walk out of it alive. It's to the point where if somebody is compared to a Catastrophe, then it'd be the highest honor they can be given—in relation to prowess."
Jugram looked up, letting the information process. Dobermann kept silent in order to let him do so, Ace watching from the sidelines, thinking over what else he could inform the Doctor about to clear him of his amnesia.
"Everybody..." Amiya finally spoke up, standing at the front of the group alongside the Doctor, reaching her hand out to make everybody halt.
"Something wrong?" Ace asked.
"Do you notice it too? The..." The Cautus thinned her lips.
"Hm?" Ace's steps slowed to a crawl, glancing around. "You're... right..." His voice drew on, a hand cupping his chin.
"The mist." Jugram was the first to catch on. "It's become thicker. Very astute of you, Amiya." It was unnatural, especially with how the environment had been. "I assume it was artificial."
"Looks like it." Dobermann narrowed her eyes, flicking her whip from her side. "Do you have any more of those predictions—or foresight—handy?" She glanced around, the rest of the squad following her and revealing their fangs, all colored a tactical black. "Looks like somebody's caught up to us."
"Most likely, Reunion too. And for your previous question..." Jugram glanced around. "Just expect an enemy at any moment." His eyelids fluttered for a moment, but when they reopened, there was no change over him. At most, he simply let out a huff, as if he wasn't feeling anything.
"Everybody, stick close together!" Ace called out. "And make cover, they're probably attempting to smoke us out."
There was a distinct sound which pervaded across the scene, forcing Jugram to turn toward it and meet it head on. His eyes remained plaided in apathy, watching a blade start coming his way with a wild fervor. A single step, a single motion, and it was right before his eyes, ready to peel off the lens ladened in just above his pupils.
A weightless step cruised through the mist, not even separating it. Practiced movements honed by the barest instincts moved with a calculative demeanor, a hyena skulking for its next prey. To sink its teeth deep into its next target, and let life flow endlessly out from their vital necks. Mercilessly. Condemningly.
The mist was so thick, that the glinting shine of a steel blade hadn't cut true for eyes to see, being unfailingly obscured by the Arts.
He scoffed, raising his arm and deflecting it off to the side, watching who attacked—a hooded red-haired woman—spin with accelerant speeds in order to cut off her momentum. He had to give it to her, it proved successful, but an assassin like her was something he was painfully used to throughout his entire lifetime.
The woman kicked at his chest, only to be met with a firm refusal from the snappish speed of his hand blocking its path. The force was dispersed across his palm, Blut Vene activating and increasing his defensive capabilities, from an copper-walled house to an iron-forged fortress, an unbreakable structure created in flesh.
Jugram glanced around, when did he cover so much distance? He could still sense his group, but the woman had made measures to separate them.
An irritated sigh escaped the woman's lips, her animal ears twitching underneath her hood, before she sprung backwards. To be more precise, Jugram had thrown her backwards, still an unmoving pole amongst the brewing chaos. Although a tungsten block may be thrown into a boiling pot, the conditions were outright incapable of melting it.
She dashed around, a flanking maneuver. It proved useless again, professed by an undetectable movement enhanced by Blut Arterie, cracking the woman's wrist from the sheer force of deflection done.
She hissed out in pain, glaring daggers at the blonde-haired man, but such daggers were even more useless than her own. She rebounded back for the second time, feet skidding across the ground as she knelt down into a position built upon the concept of springs, and promptly snapped her wrist back into place.
The mist surrounding them tightened, becoming a tightening blindfold across the eyes and senses alike.
"An assassin, how droll," Jugram commented, tone neither burning nor gentle.
"Keep talking," the woman—or should he say girl—growled.
Three daggers flicked from her wrist, revealing sharp steel ready to main and kill. For Jugram, they were relatively fast for somebody of her level. But facing many nightstalkers aiming for his and His Majesty's life always made him aware of some commonalities between them, whether it be poison, venom, or whatever they coated their blades with.
For these ones, they were dipped in nothing, making him less worried about them. Although there was the strange energy called "Arts" enhancing it to some degree, they were casually flicked away by his wrist, shooting off elsewhere. That "elsewhere" just so happened to be the trees surrounding them, where their bark held no bite for their sturdiness and were split in-twain.
Torn asunder they were left, falling down with a deep groan and clattering against the ground. Leaves flew up along with soil and dust, all married together with the mist in order to create a more dampened environment. Amongst it, a red blur had taken great opportunity to enhance her stealth, darting across the scene and throwing up more dust.
Jugram stood still, eyes tracking like a hawk. Nothing left his sights, and nothing left his senses. He knew where the rest of the group were, and they were handling their portion relatively fine, so there was no need for him to make haste with his current opponent.
However, he was never one to dilly dally around, and unexpected variables were always an ugly thing in war. Therefore, his right hand grasped onto the handle of his "Blade of Judgement," pressing down on it and tilting the sheath somewhat.
His right arm could be visibly seen, and it was very likely the dashing hyena ready to strike him had taken note of it.
Not that it mattered.
Predictably, she had appeared behind himself, the greatest blindspot the human body possessed. Through the ill-fated meadow, he was the one who stood at the precipice of defeat, the sacrifice to unrighteousness. Or rather, that would have been the case, if he were a bumbling fool.
A quick-draw. A Reiatsu projectile. A gliding of his feet. A thumping in his heart.
A thumping in his heart.
There was a pang inside, causing his vital organ to quake. His eyes tensed in irritation, but he kept himself unyielding, compressing his chest, and keeping his sword directed in perfect synchronization with his body. A hiss blared, with a spray of blood following in its wake, embellishing the territory.
"Ugh!" The red-haired woman with dog-like ears immediately widened her eyes, retreating back with quick steps.
Jugram kept his balance, flicking his broadsword. His throbbing heart continued to scream at him, but he had enough courtesy not to scream back at it, no matter how irate his brain was starting to feel.
"How fortunate of you to dodge my attack." Jugram noted. Especially a ranged one.
The woman glared at him, still grabbing her bleeding hand in order to staunch it.
"Doctor!"
A voice became vibrant across—though it may not have been an apt descriptor—as it was the same tone as he would expect from the worrywart rabbit.
"Amiya." Jugram saw the mist start to fade, keeping half an eye on the assassin. She was starting to fade away, most likely retreating or going for another strike.
"Goodness! I was so worried!" Amiya was about to say while approaching him with other Operators behind, but was immediately cut off, not by Jugram, but by an entirely different voice.
"Focus." a fragile interlude where every heartbeat, every exhaled breath being heard between Jugram and his diligent allies. "We still have enemies to focus on."
"Okay..." A thousand questions flew through her head in an unending storm, but she knew everything had a place and time. "What commands do you have, Doctor?"
The chaotic clamor slowly ebbed away, leaving the clearing in a tenuous, suspended calm. In the wake of the assassin's retreat, the battlefield became hushed, a fragile interlude. Ace and Dobermann could be seen standing with attentive stances, blended in with a modicum of sturdiness in order to create an indestructible alloy.
"Calm yourselves. We are in the midst of an enemy formation," Jugram said, sheathing his blade.
Credit to Dobermann, she did in fact, keep calm. "In the middle of the enemy? Shit." Her hand could be seen quaking, before she snapped it back into her body's conformity. "Stick close together—I mean it this time!" She barked her orders, the other slightly injured Operators shimmying into a circular barrier formation.
The unseen omen still remained. The mist, dense and unnervingly alive, cloaked the scratched earth and trembling leaves in an ethereal shroud, muting the wind. Only its noise remained, as it continued to whisper, whisper, and whisper...
Jugram's eyes, still alight with the embers of combat, swept over the once disarray. His gaze, methodical and unyielding, registered the subtle shift in the air—a palpable tension that crackled like static before a storm.
Ace's hand still clutched the remnants of the radio's fading dispatch, tightening momentarily as he alternated his focus between the ghostly outlines emerging from the fog, and the silent signals of impending danger.
Amiya, the group's Arts sentinel, stood forward with firmness that belied the chill creeping along her spine, her eyes searching for reassurance amid the dissipating chaos.
Suffocating stillness. The trees looked more skeletal. A maelstrom was starting to brew, and everybody had intrinsically become aware of that fact. Forlorn chatters and radio cackles continued to emit, mumbles searching comfort in each other with predicted plans.
Eyes turned toward Jugram, expecting him to become the harbinger of their unknown future once more, to bring it right before their eyes so they could slaughter it clean with their blades. Much to security's dismay, none of them received a single word from him, as he continued to stare across the mist.
Before Amiya's anxious call could fully rise, the silence was punctured by something unmistakable. It was a voice, light yet laced with mocking mischief, slid into their space of fear and tension.
The mist parted just enough to reveal a silhouette that defined anarchy, the stage was set for an entrance that promised to upend all expectations. Lights were upon him, shining all from the sun and a distant moon off in the cosmos—and Rhodes Island—his cameras.
Lights. Camera. Action.
A click—in the form of a walking cane hitting the ground.
"Interesting, how interesting!" A boyish voice, possessing a revelry that danced the gap between joy and madness. There stood the witnesses, that he was an agent of chaos. "I have to say to you folks, amazing work!" A chortle escaped his lips, Operators already becoming sick of his voice.
It was only then did the group notice that they were surrounded, masked Reunion members at the ready with blades in their grasp. They twitched uncontrollably, making incoherent growling sounds—as if they were animals ready to pounce for the slaughter.
"Interesting, you think this is interesting?!" Dobermann, on edge, denounced the white buffoon. "We don't need your compliments, what's your game here?" She snapped her whip against the ground, soil of the barren park kicking up.
"Oh please, is there any need to be such a spoilsport?" The white-haired boy placed a hand over his chest. "Wouldn't you say so, Crownslayer?" From behind him—the red-haired woman who had attacked Jugram—walked out from a tree, palm bleeding the story of lost combat.
Ace, Dobermann, and the rest of the Operators were rather confused. Amiya sent a gaze Jugram's way, brows pressing down with frowning lips, knowing he had been forced to act in the heat of battle. If only I had been able to help him...
"Shut it, Mephisto." Crownslayer growled. Her gaze warily lingering on the blonde-haired man with a cloak draped over his shoulders, hiding his figure underneath it. "Tch..."
"Oh, how rude of you!" The boy gasped. "I was going to introduce myself to them, and yet you reveal my name so casually." He pouted, unfitting in every sense of the word. "Need I remind you...?" His voice came to a dangerous pitch. "That this is my territory?" It fell completely to a deadpan, flipping light a switch from its previous furor.
"Break a leg, then." Crownslayer fell back into the mist, Mephisto watching her departure, eyes still precariously remaining on Jugram.
"Aw, no other words?" Mephisto casually turned away from where she exited with those words, turning back to a glaring Rhodes Island. "Ah, where was I before?" He pressed an index finger against his chin.
"What game are you attempting to play at?" Dobermann called out to him, having already relayed a message to the rest of the Operators that she was going to stall out the enemy.
"Game? Oh, yes! A game!" Mephisto chuckled, clapping his hands. "You took the words straight out of my mouth, congratulations!" His sweet voice was ladened with a sort of venom—the venom was sadistry. "Well~? How about it? I've prepared it long before you've come here, Rhodes Island!"
"What do you want with us?" Amiya narrowed her eyes, palm pointed toward him, ready to charge her Arts at any time. "This isn't some game."
"Eh? What would I want with a little pharmaceutical company?" Mephisto rhetorically asked, giving an exaggerated shrug. "Look at you, out here playing around with military equipment instead of dawdling with your test tubes. Don't tell me you're too afraid to play a game because I'm a child, right?" A devilish grin was given.
Dobermann glowered. "Despicable."
"Somebody ought to teach you respect." Mephisto smiled, tapping his cane onto the ground. "Well, maybe this little game can help to humble you a bit, what do you say?" His expression became more manic as his Reunion troops flicked their weapons, making the Rhodes Island Operators flinch. "I haven't even explained our game yet!"
"This isn't a game!" Amiya's voice burst, reaching a breaking point.
"Oh, but it is." The white-haired boy smiled even wider. "Goodness, I really can't begin to describe how lucky I've been today, encountering you interesting folks walking around my territory."
"So for my interesting people, I'm granting you the pleasure of partaking in my game! You should be happy, show me more smiles!" Mephisto's gaze swept the scenery, taking in pleasure from whoever shrinked away from his sight.
"See yourselves surrounded?" Mephisto saw the Rhodes Islanders glance around at the Reunion troops in the perimeter. "Of course, on my command, they'll charge in and slaughter you all!" His voice became more sweet, doused in a manic quality. "So do me a favor and put up a show for me, it would make all of this just so much more fun!"
He lost it. Breaking off into uncontrollable laughter, only barely able to gain control of his emotions while the fearful opposition watched him with despair. At that point, his cheshire grin was about to separate his face, and he had only come to a stop when his sights landed on the most interesting of the bunch.
Mephisto pointed to him.
"You, especially you, my friend!" His jubilant voice penetrated the tense air. "You look so much different from us, not a single feature in sight. And surviving through all previous endeavors? Crushing those troops flawlessly? It's almost as if you're perfectly made for my game!" He met the man's gaze, their definite leader.
He expected to see his expression change, a response, and—
Silence.
...he held no reaction.
It occurred for a second, then two, then three.
Mephisto raised an eyebrow, watching the blonde-haired man—the one he pointed at—stare at him with a bored look.
That was until his mouth opened.
"If you've come swathing this way, waxing your pitiful words, then I must say—you are more miserable than I could have imagined," Jugram blankly said. He made a note in his mind, that this Mephisto was nearly as miserable as Giselle Gewelle.
"Well excuse you?" Mephisto raised an eyebrow, his amused visage undeterred from the insult. "Don't we have a rude specimen today?"
"Doctor..." Amiya whispered from the side, wanting to pull him back from the devil dressed in a child's skin, yet her hand reached into empty air.
She felt Ace place a hand on her shoulder, and turning to look at him, the man wearing sunglasses simply gave her a reassuring look, mouthing a, "He's got this."
The Cautus looked at his expression for a moment, before nodding slowly.
"The only specimen I see here is you. It could almost be amusing, watching you pander your words relentlessly. But alas, I'm sure I've seen more humorous jesters in my time." Jugram stood still, now at the forefront of the group.
"Aha? A jester you say?" The white-haired child-devil tilted his head, a shadow cast over his sick eyes. "Speaking bold words today, for the position you are in."
"What position?" Jugram questioned.
"Do I need to spell it out for you?"
"Need I spell it out for you?" Even if his voice was no different from an unmoving statue, Amiya could detect a tone of condescendingness.
"Pray tell, spell what exactly?" Mephisto, still bearing his smile, gripping his cane tighter. "Look all around you! You're surrounded in this cage, hounds ready to rip you apart—" Amiya found it disgusting how he called his allies hounds "—outnumbered and outmatched. Dangling between the fingers of Death." His voice reached a boisterous crescendo, exaggeratedly baffled. "You're in my game here, brought to a corner like animals! And the best part, my esteemed guests?" His arms spread out wide, his eyes just as wide as the shadows cleared, his smile born for the world to see. "I could have you all killed at any moment, ravaged and torn apart by the seams! The only reason you're still alive is because I've been feeling so gracious today."
The wind blew across the deathly forest, the trees wilting underneath the cruel breeze, swaying to their whims with no liberty and no defense. Branches cracked—leaves fell to a crumple—all substance intertwining before nature's besmirched womb.
Clap.
Clap.
Clap.
A triple reverberation of firm skin and muscle clashing against each other could be heard, noble and bearing perfect etiquette. Too perfect, to be precise, as everybody's attention had turned to Jugram Haschwalth.
More specifically, to his face, no longer carved from stone.
Three claps had been executed, Dr. Haschwalth's hands divorced from the regalia blessed by ivory's elegance.
"Bravo, bravo," his voice bled a deadpan. "I applaud your speech. Of all the children I've seen play at theater, yours is... passable. At least, there's some passion." A thin, almost missable smile found its way on his lips.
Dobermann, who was crossing her arms from the sidelines, almost felt the infectious humor crawl its way toward her facial expressions, but reined it in.
Ace huffed in amusement, patting Amiya's back as she blinked, still processing. Around them, the tension unraveled, the Operators exchanging glances before shaking their heads, exhaling quiet chuckles.
There was no need for them to worry, just hearing Dr. Haschwalth's calm words were enough for them to dispel all perturbation.
After all, they were in the presence of The Almighty.
***
Mephisto stared, gobsmacked. Where was their fear? Where was their despair? Where had it all gone? They were cornered, they had a blade hovering just over their necks, and now they were humored of all things? Chuckling their worries away as if they were higher than heaven?
How could that be? It was inconceivable!
Impossible!
Impossible!
They should be gaping, clutching at their hearts and huddling together like the miserable pawns they were!
"What's the matter?"
A voice. That voice. It was irritating, infuriating in all aspects. How could it be so monotone? How could it be so deaf? How could he be so utterly unimpeded by any troubles?
"Have you not prepared your next act?"
How dare he...?
How dare he?!
"A shame. I held high hopes for your little play."
How. Dare. He?
Mephisto's face deformed, skins folding over another. His hand holding onto his cane quivered with unspoken wrath, neck craning over as his bangs drifted over, keeping a deadlock gaze on Jugram. Did he really think such meager little words would cut at him more than the blades poised at their throats?
Even then, with all his set-ups, he held no reaction. He held no reaction at all!
"But what have I been anticipating?" The blonde-haired man kept his gaze fixated on him in response. "No matter how much you opulently screech, no matter how much you sweetly coat your words, you're nothing more than a frothing child."
That stupid stone-cold face that would give FrostNova a run for her money, those stupid words of his...
Irritating.
Irritating. Maddening. Infuriating. Like a relentless sawing in his skull, gnawing at his patience piece by piece, chip by chip. How could he be so unmoved? So deaf? So unshaken? So—!
"Well, are we not your guests? The audience awaits your next act. You won't disappoint now, will you?"
Oh, and there he was, goading him as if he held all the power in the world! That damnable fool who dared to make a mockery of his game, the repugnant existence that defiled his masterfully crafted plan of despair! Mephisto couldn't let such hubris come to pass without punishment, for he swore vengeance's sublimity will be brought!
His stage! A maze meant for mice like them to scamper across and be eaten by their destined predators, had been torn down, left as nothing but trembling stilts clacking against the ground. Every single twist, every single turn, every single dead-end; all to bring about their exquisite expressions of despair and pain had been destroyed!
Now...?
Now...!
Now he was being made a mockery of!
He would show him. He would show them all. They were merely wearing a countenance of superiority and strength, they weren't as powerful as they were appearing to be, attempting to fool him and play him a fiddle, all elementary tricks he wouldn't fall for! He would tear down that mask—no, he would rip apart their faces! He would show them! He would show them! He would show them!
He. Would. Show. Them.
The air shifted.
...So then what was this feeling?
What was this sinking feeling, like beastly teeths gouging into his skin and flesh, encompassing his entire body?
Truth be told, there was a shadow cast over the blonde-haired man's eyes, the presence of night obstructing all those who dared to pry into his secrets. Then, for the briefest of moments, they were no longer there. The obstruction, the delicate mask, had been peeled off when those golden locks had shifted. There, Mephisto became the witness to divine right, gazing upon eyes filled with transcendent clarity. His movements ceased, breath suckled in, lungs coiled with a tight chain.
His grip instinctively tightened further onto his cane, eyes quaking with an uncontrollable shudder. Unevenly, his finger drummed against the handle against his will, showing him all the control he had lost within a blink of an eye. The corners of his once sadistic grin faltered with something looming—unseen and oppressive—through the air. This wasn't right, it wasn't right, it was never right, what was it? What was it? What was it? What was it?
What was—
He saw it.
He foresaw his death, drafted in sixfold instances. Death decreed by fate, death predestined, death wrought upon by a higher power—a righteous judgement passed in God's omniscience—a holy gospel ready to be written in scriptures, inked in blood, spilled for all worshippers to follow.
They were beheld in irises of bleeding three, a burgundy chalice filled with his own ichor—consummate yet disgusting—for The Almighty's eyes to dine upon. It was the Sacred Letter, greatest of them all, transcribed and manifested by soul.
Mephisto knew it, the so-called "Doctor" was testimony itself, embroidering a single clause:
That existence was His birthright.
"F-Faust!" Mephisto yelled, composure having lost, eyes widening as large as saucers. "Fire! Fire! Kill him!" He took a step back, feeling the metal edge of his stab into his palm when he gripped it tighter.
"Doctor! Look out!" The brown-haired Cautus, Amiya, yelled out toward Jugram, noticing a glint of amethyst making itself known, shooting forward like a ballista blast.
A mystic force was draped around it, sharpening it with a deadly force. The harrowing projectile was just before his eyes, its beaming light reaching its highest just as his eyes took attention to it, evaluating it.
Mephisto's eyes widened.
He was...
Evaluating it?!
A single blink. That was all that was needed.
Everybody had stopped dead in their tracks, and Mephisto's—the ones he was about to send toward his "troops"—had come to a halt. He saw it, what shouldn't have been possible, he saw the impossible, something he had never seen occur before.
"Wha-what?!" The white-haired boy's jaw was almost unhinged.
At the center, Jugram Haschwalth stood.
He had grabbed the arrow with his hand. A single hand, right arm crossed over his face, covering his mouth, and ballista bolt casually held between clenched fingers. His eye peered over, carrying a millennia of blood.
Mephisto shook.