The forest finally loosened its claws after hours of grinding travel. Trees that had pressed close and menaced now thinned, revealing the silhouette of a colossal stone wall clawing up into a slate sky. There stood the main gate of the Kingdom of Aethelgard—grand, yet unnervingly silent. Its splendor felt wrong in the middle of such haunted emptiness. Only a handful of anxious merchants waited in line, their carts inspected with rigid care by tense guards in silver plate.
From the shadow of the last tree, Ritsuki watched, eyes combing every detail. The air itself felt hollow, stripped of the bustle that should saturate a capital.
"Violet-sensei was right," he thought as a cold wind brushed his cheek. "The king's power has sucked the soul out of this city—dragging everyone to his misleading embrace in that cursed forest." He drew a long breath. "A thousand and one ways to slip into a fortress like this—but the most unexpected is often the simplest."
A merchant's wagon, heavy with bolts of cloth, creaked toward the gate. His chance. Moving smoother than shadow, Ritsuki slid forward. His body flattened to the earth; in the next heartbeat he was clinging beneath the axle, fingers locked to rough, cold timber inches above the dusty ground.
The wheels clattered over the stone bridge. A guard's bark halted them.
"Stop! Show your trade permit."
A pause that felt like an age. Ritsuki heard paper rustle and the driver's nervous breathing above.
"Hm… all in order. Go on." "Thank you, sir."
The cart rolled. Ritsuki's heartbeat remained steady—the rhythm trained by dozens of infiltrations. When they turned into a quieter lane, he released, dropping silent as a cat. From his pouch he flicked two gold coins toward the wagon—chiming softly—a thank-you tithe.
"Now… where are you hiding, sleeping Goddess?" he murmured to the empty wind.
The cobbled street lay barren. His own footfalls were the only music. Purple-and-gold banners drooped on their poles; shutters were clamped shut like sleeping eyes. This silence was more frightening than the loudest battlefield.
At the square he finally found life: a veteran Knight, the scars on his cuirass speaking for him, sat in an empty tavern chewing slowly through lunch. A sly plan took shape.
Ritsuki's posture shifted, from wary intruder to flustered young courier.
"Excuse me, Sir Knight," he said with careful respect. "I'm carrying an urgent parcel for Lady Amethyst. But I'm hopelessly lost in a city this big. Could you point me the way?"
The Knight lifted his tired face and studied the boy a moment. "Lady Amethyst? Ah—the Archivist. At this hour she'll be at the Grand Library. Go straight until you see the dragon statue, then left. You can't miss the golden dome. Ask the guard there for the details."
"Thank you so much, sir! You've saved me!" Ritsuki bowed, and in that breath his fingers flashed—faster than a blink. The leather pouch on the Knight's belt vanished.
"You're welcome, lad. Off with you—don't keep the Lady waiting."
Ritsuki walked away briskly without hurrying. Behind him a grumble; then the scrape of hands across a table. He glanced back, a fox's smile on his lips, raising the stolen pouch just high enough for the Knight to see.
"HEY! GIVE THAT BACK, YOU LITTLE—!"
The shout shattered the city's brittle quiet. Ritsuki didn't run; he lengthened into a provocative near-jog. The Knight thundered after him, armor squealing. Every plate meant to protect now dragged him like an anchor.
Ritsuki ducked into a narrow alley wedged between tall buildings. The trap yawned. As he expected, the Knight followed, panting hard. A longsword rasped free, the point glinting dully in the gloom.
"Surrender, thief! No way out!"
Ritsuki stopped and turned, hands raised. "All right, sir. You've caught me."
The easy capitulation shocked the Knight—that half-second of hesitation was all
Ritsuki needed. He slipped from sight as if melting into ink. Cold breath kissed the Knight's neck. Before he could turn, a short, precise blow tapped his nape. The world went black.
"Too easy," Ritsuki sighed, catching the slumping weight. "What good is armor this heavy if it can't catch a chicken thief? Ah—that's right. In a 'perfect' kingdom, crime ought not exist."
He stripped the armor quickly and buckled it on. Dead weight settled on his shoulders; every step groaned with metal hinges.
"Too heavy," he muttered. Inside the stifling helm he tied on a half-mask—a second veil.
Stiff-legged and clanking, he marched for the Grand Library. The building was magnificent—its golden dome drank what little sunlight pierced the clouds, giant wooden doors carved with the legends of heroes. Two hard-faced guards worked the threshold, frisking each visitor with pitiless care.
"Next!" one snapped, patting down an old man. "All right—inside." Ritsuki watched. This wasn't ceremony. It was serious.
A second guard approached him, suspicious. "What's a patrol Knight doing here?
Aren't you posted on the west wall?"
Ritsuki drew himself up, mimicking a soldier's arrogant spine. "Direct orders from
Captain Valerius," he said in a voice a shade deeper. "I'm to retrieve a manuscript for
Lady Amethyst. Here's the warrant."
He held out the stolen pouch. Inside—luck—lay identity papers and official passes.
The guard examined them closely.
"Hm. Seems legit. Be quick and get back to your post. Don't make trouble." "Sir."
Inside, Ritsuki slipped to a lavatory and shed the torturous plate. Freed, he felt light as breath. Under his cloak he checked his kit: kunai, smoke bombs, wire, a neatly hidden katana. All ready.
"All right, Amethyst. Let's see how deep your sleep is."
—
At the library's heart, under the dim wash of colored window-light, Amethyst sat alone. Book towers ringed her like sleeping giants; the air smelled of old paper and dust. In her hands lay a small leather-bound volume she'd found the night before—"Thirty Simple Spells for Children." A strange gift from a mysterious old man.
Curious, she sounded the first charm. "Boobuscreatus." Bubbles of rainbow light foamed from her palm, dancing and popping in silence. A slight, honest smile—rare these days—touched her mouth.
She tried again. "Hikari." Her palm glowed a soft blue, brightening the pages. The little magics felt pure and gentle, a reminder of childhood long vanished.
"Detect presence in close range," she read. "Igeiton." She closed her eyes and cast. Emptiness answered—of course the place was silent. "Who still cares for knowledge, in times like these," she thought sadly.
Then a signal pricked her senses. Something—someone—very close. Too close.
From… behind!
Amethyst jolted. Before she could turn, a calm voice touched her ear.
"Your aura is so pure, my lady. What a pity it's wrapped in darkness."
She spun, fast as a whip. A dark-haired youth stood there, gaze level, sharp, measured. No hostility—but no warmth. An anomaly.
"Who are you? How did you get this close without detection?" she hissed, hand rising to cast.
"My name doesn't matter," said Ritsuki. "I came to ask one thing, Amethyst. Do you truly believe the path you walk with the King is the path of truth?"
Her face iced over; the earlier smile evaporated into dutiful cold. "The King is light, and we are his faithful shadow. Of course it is." Her eyes narrowed. "And you, intruder, have insulted that light."
"I see," Ritsuki sighed. "You're too deep. Then forgive me—this might sting." His hand flashed. Five silver gleams cut the air—kunai aimed at vital points.
Amethyst did not panic. Her hand swept, voice ringing: "Aqua protectio!" A thick whirling wall of water rose, slapping all five aside. Then the water spun into a dozen high-pressure lances, streaking for Ritsuki like a storm of spears.
Ritsuki leapt, rolled, danced between murder. Spears shredded shelves behind him—wood exploded; pages fountained. The quiet library became a war zone.
Amethyst's smile went cool. "Fast… but only that."
He drove in. She anticipated. "Glacies murum!" The floor froze; a thorned wall of ice thrust up to bar his path.
He'd expected as much. Mid-stride he tossed a small sphere. BOOM—dense smoke boiled over the ice, blinding her view.
"Cheap trick!" she snapped, drawing wind. "Gale Push!" A blast tore the fog away and hurled thousands of books like autumn leaves.
In the chaos, Ritsuki was gone.
"Where—"
A blow hammered her back—not mere muscle, but inner power. Shock rippled through her, staggering her two steps. No more—an invisible barrier drank the force.
Ritsuki reappeared, face set, and loosed a flurry of blows. Each thudded into the unseen shield, shoving her but never cutting flesh.
"Enough games," Amethyst said, bored. As a kick pushed her back, her heel touched a small puddle—the remnant of her first spell. A trap.
"Water Prison."
Water surged upward, latticing into liquid bars that clamped around Ritsuki.
"Absolute Zero."
Her fingers brushed the bars. In a breath the prison froze into steel-hard ice, locking him in a pale coffin.
"You're nimble, I grant you," she said, walking closer. "But you fight the elements themselves. Now die. O great spirit of water, lend me your rage—" The air tightened with cold; ice crystals bloomed.
—
From inside the prison, Ritsuki's mouth bent in a thin, cold smile. "Got you."
A yank tugged Amethyst's ankle. Her eyes widened. A near-invisible wire—glinting like a spider's thread in spell-light—looped her leg. He had slipped it around her in the wild exchange—one reckless bet now paying out.
One jerk ripped her off balance. She crashed to the marble; the forming spell blew apart in a hiss of steam.
That was the gap Ritsuki wanted. He drew a breath—not just air, but every reserve of energy in his body—funneling inner power into his fist until it shone faintly white. Muscles tempered like steel coiled; with a low roar more felt than heard he struck the ice from within.
KRAAACK—BOOM!
The prison didn't merely crack—it detonated outward, flinging a blizzard of razor shards. Ritsuki burst through untouched, katana already drawn, the blade catching stray moonlight cold and hungry. In a blink he knelt beside the fallen Amethyst.
She shut her eyes, breath catching. "This… is my loss," she whispered, exhausted.
The blade hissed down—and no cold kiss touched her throat. Instead she felt something lift from the nape of her neck, a surgeon's clean severing.
A creature the size of a thumb—leech-shaped, a deep, ugly purple—splatted to the floor. It pulsed with wicked light and loosed a thin soul-shriek only a hunter like Ritsuki could hear—then sublimed to black dust.
"So this parasite made you the King's puppet," Ritsuki muttered. "Too small to see. I only caught its violet glint when you reached for that strongest spell."
At once the heat and hatred burning in Amethyst guttered out. Tension fell from her limbs, replaced by total fatigue. The ice in her eyes thawed back to soft confusion before darkness claimed her.
Ritsuki sheathed his sword and surveyed the wreckage—the great library smashed to ruin. A war trumpet split the night. Alarms. Time to go.
He lifted Amethyst gently in a princess carry; she weighed almost nothing—a precious burden to protect. He shot for a shattered rear window. Three knights gaped at the sight, charged; without lowering Amethyst, Ritsuki blurred—three flowing turns, three clean nape strikes—three bodies dropped without a sound.
He vaulted out, landing on a lower roof. Torches flared across the city like angry eyes. Under the full moon, he began to run—over roofs, phantom-swift across the sleeping capital—aiming for the rear wall.
At the top of the colossal curtain, wind ripped his cloak. Behind, the city roused; ahead, a man-made cliff as high as a bell tower dropped to black, rock-strewn ground.
Only a sad haystack squatted at the base.
"Damn," he breathed. "Leaping with this weight is suicide. The hay won't be enough.
Climb down slow and the archers will skewer us."
As if on cue, arrows hissed past, sparking on stone. They'd been sighted. Time was gone.
"Hold tight," he whispered to his sleeping Goddess.
He hugged Amethyst closer with his right arm and ran into sky. For a heartbeat they were falling—wind roaring, gravity cruel. His left hand snapped. A special kunai—hawk-taloned and chained to thin steel—spun for the wall.
THUNK!
The hook bit a seam in the stone. The chain went taut and wrenched his shoulder near out of socket. Muscles screamed; his grip only tightened.
Hand over hand, he bled speed from the drop. Arrows drummed the air but they were a slippery target now. A few meters above the straw he released; they fell the last stretch and hit hard, the hay swallowing the worst.
He dragged Amethyst free, breathing hard. "Good thing I kept that claw," he said, eyeing the hooked kunai still wedged above.
No time to admire. He shouldered her and ran for the dark line of trees. He became shadow and slid between patrol routes now surely spreading beyond the wall.
For half an hour he threaded the tight forest, breath quick only from tension. Pursuit noises faded into the hush of midnight. At a spring he stopped, knelt, and gave Amethyst water.
Silence. Too deep.
As he started to rise his knife-edge senses prickled. Something sliced the air. Reflex took over—he shoved Amethyst aside and rolled.
Sssk!
A jet-black throwing knife thudded into the trunk where his head had been. Its hum still trembled.
Ritsuki came up with katana half-drawn, eyes combing the dark between trees.
The black blade still quivered—a deadly comma in the quiet. He stood poised as a masked figure stepped from shadow. The air thickened with omen.
"Ghastly instincts," the dry voice behind the porcelain mask said—oddly admiring. "I threw without sound, without killing intent—only a greeting. Yet your body moved before your mind could think. Truly… the Steel Assassin."
Ritsuki's heart kicked once. That title—buried with his past in another world—should be unknown here.
"I don't have time for pleasantries," he growled, low and dangerous. "Name your employer, or the next greeting comes from my blade."
The figure chuckled—dry leaves crushed underfoot. "Oh, I serve many. For now, let's say I'm enjoying the generosity of a tyrant named Viorrno. Irrelevant. What matters is you—and the gem you're carrying. If you think you'll just run off with her… you're unlucky tonight, Ritsuki Koutarou."
Every syllable of his name landed like a blow. This wasn't a common thug. He knew too much.
"Since this is our first proper meeting," the figure went on, "manners, yes?" He lifted the mask.
A young face, perhaps Ritsuki's age. Snow-white hair. Blood-red eyes dancing with leashed mania. A thin, sinful smile.
"Across the universes I've walked, only one name could match my trail and speed," he hissed, staring into Ritsuki. "Only you deserve this face. Call me Shiromaru. Or, as my victims in other worlds whispered… the White Owl."
"You know too much," Ritsuki said coolly, glancing at the unmoving Amethyst. "I'd love your story, but I'm busy. Move."
"Busy?" Shiromaru arched a brow. "I've hunted you across dimensions, my rival! I hounded your scent like a starving dog! And now you tell me to go? Don't jest." His aura detonated—killing intent, cold and thick, iced the grove. "Face me!"
Ritsuki sighed, a thin mist leaving his lips. Negotiation was dead. He unbuckled a shoulder pauldron; metal fell with a soft clang—the sign he was shedding anything that slowed absolute speed.
"Five minutes," he said, eyes turned to steel. "Don't bore me." "Five minutes of eternity for you!" Shiromaru roared.
In a blink, Shiromaru vanished—not fleeing, but erasing. Air boiled behind Ritsuki; he dove and rolled. Eight shuriken spun from where he'd been, whispering toward the place Shiromaru reappeared.
The White Owl weaved through the iron rain and met Ritsuki in the middle.
KRENNG!
Metal screamed. Sparks burst. Their duel leapt to a speed no normal eye could hold.
"Heh. Backhand grip?" Shiromaru sneered, flipping away. "Deadly up close." "You know your steel," Ritsuki said. "Then… how about this?"
His stance rooted; both hands wrapped the hilt. Aura shifted from lithe killer to immovable samurai. He breathed—and the forest seemed to hush.
"Itt--ry-," he whispered to himself—a bow to a teacher in another life.
Shiromaru's eyes lit. "Showing your fangs? Then I'll be serious too." He let a throwing blade fall and drew twin short swords—thin, murderous. "You bring power; I'll answer with speed."
"Nit--ry-," Ritsuki observed. "A storm of cuts, but…"
He didn't finish. He slammed in with locomotive momentum. The horizontal cut smashed into both crossed blades.
BOOM.
Shock rippled the ground; Shiromaru's feet skidded a handspan.
"…poor for guarding." Ritsuki finished and chopped straight down.
KRAANG! Arms shuddered; Shiromaru snarled. "Tch—you know too much… rival!"
"If this is heavy for you, I can slow down," Ritsuki needled, raining brutal arcs that forced a desperate defense.
He raised high for a head-splitter. Blades locked—Ritsuki drove a hard kick into Shiromaru's chest, hurling him back. The White Owl flipped, turned the throw into a clean arc—and, at its peak, snapped one short sword straight at Ritsuki's face. A feint.
Ritsuki tilted to slip it and surged forward—
Shiromaru's body winked from the air—then reappeared beside his thrown blade, perfectly behind Ritsuki.
"—!?"
Before Ritsuki could turn, an axe kick hammered his back. He tumbled, flipped, landed light, eyes narrowed.
"He doesn't teleport at will. He moves… to his knives." "Correct," Shiromaru sang. "Synchro. Simple Potential: I swap positions with any metal projectile I've thrown.
You'd work it out."
Knives flew. He Synchro-ed to the first—slashing from Ritsuki's left. Parried. To the second—now on his right. This was not a fight; it was a lethal shell game.
"Damn… no gaps!" A cut grazed Ritsuki's arm. Another Synchro put Shiromaru behind him; a pommel crashed into his spine.
Ritsuki lurched and ripped a full-power cut back—through empty air. Shiromaru had Synchro-ed in front again and drove a punch for Ritsuki's gut.
Ritsuki caught it on his forearms and felt an opening. He stamped his right foot, driving breath and power to a point.
"Shift Press!"
DGGHHMM—
The ground convulsed like a local quake; cracks spidered out. Mid-attack, Shiromaru stumbled for that crucial split-second.
Enough.
"Martial Arts—Django Palm."
Ritsuki's left hand opened and thrust. No touch—just a focused inner-power shock slammed Shiromaru's chest.
BLARR!
He flew like a rag doll and crashed to one knee, coughing hard. "Ugh… that… hurts," he wheezed, grinning through blood. "Didn't know you could shake the earth." "Breath and energy to a single point—release—momentum for the next strike," Ritsuki said.
"So that's your Potential, Steel?" "I don't know," Ritsuki replied, resetting. "Why don't you figure it out—like I did yours?"
Shiromaru laughed—pained, elated, unhinged. "I admit it. You're the only one. My rival… my purpose in this world is to stand on your corpse."
Ritsuki's breath smoked in the cold. The exchange had drained more than he'd expected. The White Owl knelt, blood on his lip, eyes still aflame.
"Go," Ritsuki said, voice knife-cold. "Leave while I permit it, before I decide to end this."
Silence. Then Shiromaru's shoulders shook. A rough chuckle rippled into loud laughter—echoing in the trees. Not the laughter of defeat, but of a man who'd found his purpose.
"Ahaha… AHAHAHAHA!" He staggered up, wiped his mouth, and grinned wide. "Those eyes—colder and sharper than any I've seen. Not merely a killer's—an executioner's for gods." "I take only the lives that deserve to end," Ritsuki said flatly. "The list is long." "Of course!" Shiromaru beamed. "I thought you a skilled fanatic's dog. You're worse—you're a madman who's found his religion… and I, it seems, am your prophet."
He sucked breath, mastering the pain. "Ritsuki Koutarou… Fine. I'll end tonight's meeting here. But hear me."
His mania cooled to a piercing intensity. He lifted a knife—not to throw, but like a vow.
"You choose the rebel's road—a shadow against the kingdom's false light. Then I'll be its Knight. I'll be the Hero whose light destroys you." His eyes burned with fanatic faith. "You be monster; I'll be savior. You be rescuer; I'll be tyrant. Two sides of a coin—fated to annihilate each other. The only truth there is." "'Fate' is an excuse for those too weak to choose," Ritsuki said. "We'll see," Shiromaru whispered. "You stand with rebellion; then I'll stand with the crown. Until next time… Steel."
He folded into the trees and was gone—like smoke before a breeze. Pressure vanished; the grove returned to simple night.
Ritsuki stood a moment until the adrenaline quieted. The forest was just crickets and wind again. "A new problem," he thought. The mission was no longer simple rescue; a ghost from his past stalked this world.
He turned to Amethyst, still out cold. Her peaceful sleeping face recalled his true task. With a long breath he bent, collected his shed pauldrons—the metal cold and heavy as the duty he wore—and lifted her once more. The weight felt heavier now—not from exhaustion, but from the White Owl's shadow trailing the dark.
—
Warm golden light slipped through the cracks of wooden shutters, nudging Violet from deep sleep. She blinked, lids heavy with spent days. The room glowed in orange and purple of late dusk. She glanced out. The sun already kissed the western rim.
"Hm… I've slept since midnight…?" her voice rasped. Bone-deep aches told her she'd finally let herself rest.
A familiar, soothing smell drifted from the kitchen—meat broth and quiet spices. Barefoot on cool boards, eyes still adjusting, she padded toward the warmth.
At the stove, a steady silhouette moved with efficient silence. Ritsuki, sleeves rolled, stirred a big pot with the same precision he gave steel.
"Good evening, Sensei," he said without turning, as if he sensed her with more than sight. "You must be hungry. The soup's almost done. Bathwater's hot—please wash first."
Violet paused. This calm domestic attention always disarmed her—so at odds with the fearsome reputation that cloaked him.
"D-don't treat me like spoiled little Stella…" she muttered, cheeks warming.
"Ara-ra… look who can blush," a third voice teased lightly from the table—familiar, impossible.
Violet's head snapped up. Sleep was gone from her eyes. A lavender-haired woman sat gracefully with a steaming cup of tea. Her face was pale, tired—but her blue eyes were clear of the horrible emptiness Violet remembered.
"Ame…?" Violet whispered, voice breaking. "Amethyst? Is it really you?"
Amethyst smiled softly—a genuine smile Violet hadn't seen in two years. "Hi, Vio. It's been a while."
Ritsuki set down the wooden spoon. "Mission complete," he reported, crisp and simple.
"The mind-control parasite was destroyed. Lady Amethyst is safe."
Violet looked from Ritsuki to Amethyst and back. Her thoughts raced, trying to grasp the impossible: Amethyst snatched from the kingdom's heart—under the King's eye—by one boy, alone.
"You… you truly…" Words jammed in her throat. She could only stare at Ritsuki with a tangle of disbelief, awe, and vast relief.