Paradis Island.
Inside the Walls.
Stohess District, at the barbican.
Roger looked at the crowd outside the door. They didn't look unfriendly because of scowls; it was who they were—people with records. If the Military Police picked them up, they'd be doing at least two years.
They clutched "Uprising" flyers and stared, bright-eyed, at Roger—the "god"—hungry to join him, hungry for wealth and rank under his lead.
Roger knew all that. He looked over Nelly, who had come back with these "gifts," taking in his outfit.
Nelly would be Nelly: while the Scorpio Unit stirred up trouble inside the Walls, he'd seized the moment and wrangled himself a cushy post as a Garrison Regiment squad leader.
His uniform still looked new. He was clearly doing well in the regiment. For reasons unknown, he hadn't stayed on. He'd chosen to return to his old employer—the Scorpio Unit.
Roger watched him.
He watched Roger.
Roger was impassive.
There was a fox's glint in Nelly's eyes.
"You look like a fox," Roger said, flat as fact. "If someone laid down coin for my head, I believe you'd sell any intel on me without blinking. So, Nelly—I can't keep you."
"Forgive me, boss. Dying for someone else isn't my style. But since I came back with gifts, I'm here decided—I won't betray you again."
"Oh? How do you prove it?"
Roger raised a brow, unhurried.
Before he could say more, Nelly drew an ultrahard steel blade from the ODM scabbard on his hip, turned it once into his grip.
"Nelly?!"
The air went tight with the rasp of steel.
Murmurs rippled through the men behind Nelly—uneasy whispers, feet shifting.
Tours' face went dark. Anger sharpened his eyes. A concealed pistol sprang from his sleeve into his palm.
If Nelly pointed that blade at Roger, Tours would put a round between his eyes.
Nelly didn't.
He didn't even hesitate.
He gave a quick, crooked laugh; the blade flashed down.
He chopped off his own left hand.
Thud!
The severed hand dropped to the stones. Blood rolled hot from the stump.
Blood streamed down his arm, across his chest, soaking his thigh. Cold sweat beaded. Nelly had never taken a wound like this; his teeth chattered, his whole frame shaking. But he stood, turned, and raised the severed limb toward the crowd he'd brought, letting the blood pour.
They froze, stunned. Eyes fixed on the Garrison squad leader who'd recruited them into the Scorpio Unit, waiting on what a man like that would say.
After a heartbeat of silence, he clenched through the pain and roared:
"Anyone who joins the Scorpio Unit with me today—and then betrays—meets this end!"
He faced Roger again, drenched in sweat, lifting the stump for him to see.
Roger frowned but didn't move.
Behind him, Tours eased his grip on the pistol, then tightened it again.
Upstairs, Levi—who'd insisted on a room of his own—heard the ruckus, pushed a window open, sleep cap still on, and squinted down at the scene. His gaze paused on an old acquaintance: Nelly.
Nelly spoke again, to Roger.
"Boss, you said it: people chase profit to live, and they die chasing it. I, Nelly, am a petty man who chases profit—but a simple one. If you can give me boundless confidence, I stay. If you can't, I leave." He drew a rough breath. "Leaving last time was my mistake. I won't prattle about loyalty; I can't be like Tours, whose only thought is to stand at your side."
He picked up his severed arm under a hundred eyes and said:
"You promised us unmatched wealth and status. I failed to believe you—that's on me. To make amends, I cut off my own hand. That's the price I should pay. Now, I want back in with the Scorpio Unit—because I think you'll win. You're a force that wins forever. Quitting you was the loss of my life."
Silence fell and held.
Every eye slid to Roger, waiting for his answer.
Nelly had laid his self-interest bare. But if you truly will win, why fear a man like him?
Levi's eyes left Nelly and went to Roger.
Roger stepped forward.
He walked to Nelly.
Slowly, he took the severed arm. Ignoring the stink of blood, he pressed the stump to it and squeezed hard.
Nelly locked on Roger's face, jaw clenched from the pain, not a sound leaving his mouth.
No one knew what Roger meant to do.
Then a small miracle happened.
Thin black lines crept from Roger's palm, climbing Nelly's arm.
Eyes wide, Nelly watched those snake-like threads yank and stitch his severed limb back together.
"What—?!"
"What is that?!"
"It—it's on—he fixed it!"
Gasps swelled. Roger gave Nelly's hand a final, firm squeeze.
The arm was whole—good as new.
Nelly stared, stunned. Sensation flooded back into his left hand—and it was even quicker, nimbler than before.
Aside from a thin black scar at the seam, it was the same as ever.
"Boss…"
"Pretty speeches are your specialty. Sorry—I'm sticking with what I said."
Roger smiled, patted his shoulder.
Nelly looked at him and saw a god fallen to earth, as if everything about him lay open to that gaze.
His strength left him. He sagged to his knees.
Roger leaned to his ear and murmured a few words.
"I understand," Nelly said, standing. "Sorry to disturb you."
He turned, shoved through the press of bodies, and left.
"As for the rest of you—welcome." Roger narrowed his eyes and smiled. The smile made skin crawl.
They stayed anyway. With a leader of principle like this, the future gleamed.
The crowd began to surge.
Watching Nelly's back recede, Roger's nostrils twitched. He lifted his hand and, without thinking, licked Nelly's blood from his fingertip.
Oh?
Surprisingly tasty.
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