The forest still smoldered as dawn crept through the trees. Wisps of gray smoke curled around Sir William Henry, who sat propped on a bed in the old man's eatery, armor dented and blackened. Every breath he took trembled with pain. The old man from the eatery knelt at his side, tightening a strip of cloth around William's ribs.
"Since when," the old man muttered, "did the damn Kurokage start using rocket launchers?"
William winced but kept his voice steady. "Apparently Ogawa pays very handsomely."
The old man tied the knot and sat back on his heels. "And what of Moro? Did they kill him?"
William shook his head stubbornly. "A warrior of his skill? Unlikely. Either he dealt with them… or he's their prisoner. And if that is the case, I'll make sure the Kurokage regret their arrogance."
"Sir William, please," the old man said softly. "You're barely standing. You need rest at least a day."
William's eyes hardened, noble and relentless. "Your kindness is appreciated. But Ogawa is unleashing assassins armed with explosives across the countryside. That rocket could have hit your eatery, a home, or a schoolhouse. Resting is a luxury we may not have."
The old man sighed deeply and reached inside his coat. He withdrew a small case carved with a crescent sun. "If you insist on going, take this. A healing salve from my clan days. Might keep you alive long enough to do something useful."
William accepted it with both hands and bowed his head. "I am in your debt."
"Come back and enjoy another meal with me," the old man said. "That'll be payment enough."
William forced himself upright, leaning heavily on his claymore. "Of course sir."
Cold air drifted through the dungeon beneath Ogawa's fortress. The walls sweated moisture, the stone slick with moss and rust. A single torch burned weakly outside the cell where Moro lay chained to the wall. Isuna crouched beside him, whispering sharply.
"When he looks in, you're dying. Not a little dying a lot. Shake, groan, maybe even cry."
Moro frowned. "Cry?"
"Yes," she snapped. "You look like the type who cries pretty anyway."
He sighed dramatically and lay back. "Fine. Let's hope I'm a convincing corpse."
The guard's footsteps approached, dragging lazily down the corridor. Isuna slammed her palms against the bars.
"Hey! Guard! I think this Moro guy is about to croak!"
The guard didn't look up. "Yeah? And how's that my problem?"
Isuna glared. "Because Ogawa values this kid. If he finds out you let The Merciless Moro Ashin die in here, he'll skin you alive. I'm trying to help you, dumbass."
Moro began to convulse, groaning loudly. His eyes rolled back, tears streaking down his cheek. He coughed and went limp.
The guard cursed. "Shit… shit…"
He rushed to the cell, fumbling with the keys. The moment the door swung open, he knelt at Moro's side.
"Ogawa's gonna kill me if this brat dies," he muttered, unlocking the shackles.
The first shackle clicked open.
Then the second.
Moro's eyes snapped open.
The guard barely had time to gasp before Moro surged forward, one arm snapping around his throat, choking him with merciless precision.
Isuna nodded approvingly. "Very nice. Ay don't kill him."
Moro tightened his grip. "This guard was actually nice to me." Isuna shouted
"And so what?" He shot back. "He's guarding you in a cell. He's no better than the ones who dragged you here."
Her voice softened slightly. "Either way… he's beaten. You don't have to kill everyone you meet in conflict."
A strange hesitation flickered across Moro's face confusion at the foreign concept of mercy. He slowly released his grip. The guard slumped unconscious to the floor.
"Good," Isuna murmured. "Now get his keys. We're leaving."
Moro unlocked her cell. She stepped out gracefully, rolling her shoulders as her muscles shook off their stiffness.
"Thank you. Now let's move. First stop is the trophy room."
They slipped through the corridor, shadows clinging to their forms. Moro followed closely, unable to stop himself from noticing the way she moved fluid, controlled, every step balanced and calculated.
Her body was lean and honed, sculpted by a life of running through forests, climbing cliff faces, and throwing tomahawks with deadly accuracy. Every line of her frame flowed into the next, long legs, a taut stomach marked with the faint, elegant ridges of muscle, arms shaped by battle rather than vanity. She moved with the effortless grace of a huntress whose footsteps were taught by the Orion itself.
Isuna reached back suddenly and grabbed his hand, pulling him down a branching passage.
For a moment, Moro nearly blushed.
He crushed the feeling at once.
"How do you know where to go?" he whispered.
"My tribe has a talent," she whispered back. "We know where to move even when we don't know where to move."
"That makes no sense."
She shrugged. "Got us this far, didn't it?"
They rounded a corner, and Isuna halted.
"And here we are," she announced. "Trophy room."
She raised her hand toward him.
Moro frowned. "What are you doing?"
"It's a high five, pretty boy."
He sighed and met her palm with a soft slap.
"Teamwork," she said, grinning.
The trophy room was a vault of stolen glory. Lanternlight shimmered across piles of gold and jewels. Weapons from every culture on Orion lined the walls: rifles, halberds, tribal axes, knight swords, plasma daggers, war banners, relics ripped from generations of warriors.
Isuna's eyes shone as she spotted her twin tomahawks. She rushed forward and lifted them from their stand, spinning each blade in her palms with practiced grace.
"Oh yeah," she breathed. "How I've missed my babies." She kissed each blade. "Let's not get separated again."
Moro wasn't listening.
Something in the room called to him like a heartbeat.
At the center stood a black lacquer stand. Mounted on it was his katana. The scabbard was obsidian-dark, the hilt wrapped in white silk stained faintly with old battles. But the engraving was what froze him:
TO THE DEATH
The words felt alive. Heavy. Familiar.
He approached slowly, almost reverently, fingertips brushing the lacquered sheath. The blade hummed under his touch an old oath waking.
Isuna watched him softly. "Feels like it's been waiting for you."
Moro slid the katana into his sash. His voice was calm, low.
"It has."
"Alright," she said, tightening her grip on her weapons. "Let's get out of here. You can come visit my tribe after this. They'll cook you a huge dinner especially for saving the chief's daughter."
Moro didn't look away from his blade.
"Thank you. But the Kurokage owe me a rematch… and Ogawa owes me his head."
He turned and walked out of the trophy room.
"Merciless indeed," Isuna sighed, jogging after him. "Well, you saved me, and it's been a minute since I've had a good fight so I'll join you. Besides who's gonna protect that pretty face of yours?"
Moro didn't break stride. "Fine. Then let's go."
Outside the fortress, the wind howled across cracked stone. Sir William Henry stood tall despite his wounds, claymore resting across his broad shoulder. His armor was battered, but his posture remained unbroken.
He glared up at Ogawa's towering stronghold.
"Ogawa," he called, voice ringing like a war horn. "Prepare to meet the strength of Veyra's greatest knight."