The punch came so fast it barely existed—just a distortion in the air, a whisper of death rushing toward Veron's face. It should've shattered bone. Ended the fight before it began.
Instead, Veron blocked the punch with his elbow and caught it.
His fingers tightened around Dren's fist with calm, surgical precision. A faint tremor rippled outward from the impact, stirring dust across the execution square's tiles. For a heartbeat, the world froze.
Then Veron smiled.
It wasn't friendly.
It wasn't sane.
It was the smile of a man who had just discovered something he thought no longer existed.
"I've been looking for someone like you for years," he said quietly, excitement flickering like wildfire in his eyes. "Fight me."
Dren's body moved—reflex, instinct, hunger. He twisted his hips and launched a devastating roundhouse kick, the kind that could split a wooden post clean in half. The air cracked as his leg swept through it.
Veron slid under the kick with ghostlike grace.
And before Dren even landed—
Veron was already above him.
Upside down.
Body suspended in the air like a dancer made of muscle and intent.
A heel descended toward Dren's head like a falling star.
Dren barely crossed his arms in time—
CRASH—
The blow shook the square, rattling chains and lifting dust in a violent ring around them.
Soldiers panicked.
One fired.
The bullet sliced directly between Veron and Dren. Both fighters froze for half a beat, annoyance flashing in their eyes at the same time.
Then Veron tilted his head, voice dripping with amusement.
"Dren… join me."
Dren blinked. "Join you in what?"
Veron's hand dipped to his belt with terrifying calm.
He raised a pistol and aimed it at Dren's forehead.
"Become the first member of my legion."
He pulled the trigger.
Dren dodged, snatching the pistol mid-motion with a small, annoyed smirk.
"So let me get this straight… you want me to become an Ascender, kill a bunch of people, and follow you?"
"Wrong." Veron stepped closer. "I don't kill innocents. And you—you have a goal. You need to ascend. Don't you?"
Dren's lips tightened.
"…Yes."
"But why would I follow you?" he asked.
Veron paused. Something in him softened—barely. A breath of humanity sliding through the cracks.
Then he turned his back to Dren.
"You should follow me," he said, "because if we keep fighting here… you won't survive the hundred soldiers surrounding this square."
The sound of dozens of rifles being loaded filled the air.
Dren didn't hesitate. "Who said I can't?"
He sprinted.
Soldiers screamed. "He's running—shoot!"
Gunfire erupted like a storm.
Bullets tore through the air, slicing the world into shrapnel and smoke.
Dren ran straight toward death.
One soldier aimed perfectly—
A clean shot at Dren's skull.
BANG—
The moment froze.
A knife spun through the air.
Sparks erupted as it deflected the bullet off its path.
Veron had already reached Dren. He grabbed a sword from a fallen soldier, punched the shooter unconscious in a single motion, and moved without slowing.
In the brief second before the soldier collapsed, Veron snatched another blade, flipped it in his hand, and sliced clean through the chains on Dren's wrists.
Metal fell away like dead weight.
Dren stared in disbelief. "What the hell are you doing!?"
Veron's grin was wild—bright, irrational.
"Saving my friend."
He hurled the sword at a rope holding up a wooden platform. The rope snapped. The structure collapsed onto the soldiers ahead, opening a path.
Veron grabbed Dren's wrist.
"To the alleys. Now!"
They shot into Sevala's twisting network of backstreets.
Steam rose from half-closed kitchens. Vendors screamed, hauling down shutters as bullets shattered tables and tore through wooden walls. The salty breeze mixed with the scent of fried noodles and gunpowder. Everywhere around them, people dove for cover.
For a moment, as they entered a dark alley, Dren finally noticed his own breathing—sharp, loud enough to drown out the alarms. Veron, meanwhile, didn't even seem winded.
The city alarms erupted.
WEEEOOO— WEEEOOO—
Every siren in the district screamed their names.
A radio crackled from a shop window as they sprinted past:
"Attention all units! The condemned fighter Dren has escaped with the aid of Hunter Veron. Both individuals are now fugitives. A reward is issued for any information."
Dren snorted breathlessly. "Congrats. You're officially wanted with me."
"No problem," Veron replied. "I was planning to leave the city anyway."
"Because of me?"
"No. Because I'm bored."
Dren opened his mouth—then shut it.
There was no arguing with insanity.
Gunfire resumed behind them.
Bullets punched holes through walls.
Veron vaulted over crates.
Dren ran across them.
For a brief stretch of chaotic, explosive movement—they were perfectly in sync.
Two shadows dancing above the panicked city.
They reached a staircase and burst onto the rooftops. Wind slapped their faces as they sprinted across uneven tiles and makeshift bridges connecting buildings like spiderweb threads.
"Where are we going!?" Dren shouted.
"Not sure," Veron yelled back. "But once we lose them, we're leaving the city."
Dren's breath caught.
"…Why do you want to become an Ascender?"
Veron answered without hesitation.
"To become Wallstride."
Dren stumbled in shock.
"You are completely insane."
Veron smirked. "Good thing I'm not normal."
"And what about your legion?" Dren demanded.
"You need a legion. How will you ascend alone?"
Veron slowed, glancing at him with calm conviction.
"You are my legion."
Dren nearly tripped again.
But there was no time to respond—they reached a dead end.
A towering metal wall blocked the rooftop.
Behind them, soldiers climbed up, rifles raised.
"We're trapped," Dren muttered.
"Speak for yourself," Veron said.
He jumped onto a signpost, used its flex to launch himself onto a lower adjacent roof, and rolled smoothly into the shadows.
Dren inhaled sharply.
Then jumped.
They landed in another world.
The Shadow District.
Steam rising from rusty pipes.
Red lanterns flickering.
The smell of old spices and burning incense thick in the air.
Women in flowing silks leaned on balcony rails, their laughter soft and teasing, lantern light catching on smooth skin and curved silhouettes.
Neon wires hummed above them, casting shifting colors across wet stone, as if this district followed rules the rest of the city had forgotten.
One brushed past them, perfume lingering behind her, kimono slipping just enough to reveal a delicate collarbone and a playful smirk.
Dren's face heated.
Veron didn't even blink.
"Focus," he murmured.
They turned a corner—
—and froze.
Three men in dark coats stood waiting.
Blocking the alley.
No weapons drawn.
No fear in their eyes.
Their coats bore no badge, no emblem—but the pressure in the air tightened like an invisible fist.
Their leader stepped forward, lantern light catching his sharp jaw and thin smile.
"Veron… finally."
He spread his arms slightly, like greeting an old friend.
"You really made this easy for us."
Dren whispered, wary and instinctive:
"Friends of yours?"
Veron's smirk was flat. Detached.
"No. Just a nuisance."
Dren looked at him.
And for the first time since this began—
He saw something new in Veron's eyes.
Not excitement.
Not confidence.
Not curiosity.
But discomfort.