Arven sat in the car, eyes locked on the signals from Square B. A flicker—something changed.
He leaned forward instantly.
"Sir… pacemaker deadline—005."
Vale didn't look up at first. He swirled his glass of centuries-aged malt, the liquid catching faint light.
"What about the rest?" he asked, voice cold and measured.
Arven checked the tablet again, jaw tightening.
"Their heart rates are spiking…" he paused.
"…but they're alive."
Vale took a slow sip from his cup before looking up.
"What's the ETA?"
"Two minutes, sir," Arven replied.
Right on cue, the car rolled to a stop inside the warehouse—its engine humming low in the hollow space.
The driver stepped out immediately, moving with practiced precision, and circled to the rear door. He opened it without a word, head slightly bowed—waiting for his master to step out.
Vale stepped out into the bright moonlight, his albino coat catching the glow—gleaming, almost unnatural against the dark.
Arven straightened immediately, stepping forward. He placed the cane into his master's hand with care, then offered the mask.
Vale took it, turning it slightly, studying the pale, expressionless surface. For a moment, he said nothing.
"…Why did I even bother with this?" he murmured.
Arven hesitated. "Sir… we need to keep your identity hidden."
Vale let out a faint, amused breath.
"I'm quite sure we already know who this is. And he'll figure me out soon enough."
He tilted his head slightly.
"I'm acquainted with his father."
A pause.
"So a mask is pointless."
Arven didn't move.
Vale glanced at him, then gave in with quiet indifference.
"…But since you insist."
He raised it and clipped it into place—a pale, faceless mask swallowing his features whole.
The night shattered with violence.
Gunfire cracked through the air—sharp, relentless. Explosions followed, dull and heavy, shaking the ground beneath them. Beneath it all… something worse.
Screams.
Not just pain—something twisted, inhuman. Like shadows themselves were crying out as they tore apart.
Arven moved instinctively, stepping in front of Vale as they advanced toward the warehouse entrance, his posture alert, protective.
The metal doors loomed ahead, trembling faintly with every blast inside.
Vale walked on, unhurried.
Just who are you, Lucien Rein… he wondered, the name lingering like a challenge in his mind.
Lucien stood above it all, positioned at the top of the frame, overlooking the chaos beneath.
His black-and-gold mask faced the shadow vortex—its surface reflecting the slow, writhing movement of the darkness.
"You're really going to kill them all?" the voice asked.
"No."
A pause.
"That one was a mistake. The shadows were hungry… it took more than necessary."
The vortex pulsed faintly.
Then—
Lucien felt it.
A pull. Subtle, but absolute. Something had entered the board.
"…Brat. He's here," the voice said.
"I know."
Lucien moved, stepping forward as the shadows behind him settled into stillness.
His gaze fixed ahead—
The warehouse doors groaned open.
Vale stepped in—
—and for the first time in centuries, his body reacted.
A faint tingle crawled along his spine. Not fear.
Excitement.
His gaze lifted slowly… and locked onto its source.
Lucien.
Above, Lucien stared down at the man who had just entered.
He studied him in silence.
The way he walks…
The posture… the control…
He's not used to hiding.
No—someone like him has never needed a mask.
A public figure… influence, power… someone known.
A pause.
Then the thought settled, heavier.
…But that's irrelevant.
This man is terrifying.
Lucien's voice dropped inward.
"…He's a master. At the very least."
The voice responded, low and edged—
"Then don't get careless, brat."
Lucien didn't look away.
"I won't."
Below, Vale adjusted his grip on the cane, the pale mask hiding whatever expression crossed his face—
But the air between them had already shifted.
Two presences.
One space.
And neither willing to yield.
Lucien's shadow thickened—coagulating at his side.
It rose, shaping itself into a limb-like form before extending outward. From it, a weapon emerged—dark liquid dripping away to reveal a steel-black katana beneath.
Lucien grasped it.
With a smooth motion, he unsheathed the blade, his gaze briefly settling on its edge.
A weapon that has taken so many lives…
…and cost me even more.
The sheath sank back into the shadows.
Well… better get to it.
In an instant—
He moved.
A blur.
The air cracked as he crossed the distance, blade already drawn—aimed straight for the man in white.
Clang.
The strike never reached Vale.
Arven stood between them, intercepting it at the last possible moment.
Lucien's eyes shifted slightly.
"Sir… I'd prefer if you didn't intervene."
Arven smirked faintly.
"Sorry, kid. He pays my salary."
He lifted his leg and drove a kick toward Lucien—
—but Lucien reacted instantly.
He kicked off Arven's strike itself, using the force like a launchpad to flip back and create distance, landing smoothly a few meters away.
A faint grin tugged at him.
"…You've got a tough body."
"I train well," Arven said with a smirk.
Lucien's shadow stirred again—coagulating as the sheath rose silently from it.
With a controlled motion, he lowered the blade back in.
A soft click echoed as steel met darkness.
"Well… good for you," Lucien said calmly.
A pause.
"I'm not here to fight—"
"…yet," the voice finished.
"I understand."
The voice came from the man in white—cold, calm, absolute.
Lucien stepped forward, closing the distance without hesitation.
"I'd hope so," he said.
He stopped just short of him.
"What do I call you?"
A faint pause.
"You may call me… the Collector."
"And you, my young friend?"
Lucien let out a quiet breath, almost amused.
"Cut the bullshit. I know you know who I am—so let's not waste time."
A slight tilt of his head.
"But if you need something to call me…"
"I've had many names."
A beat.
"But since you're the one in white—"
"…you can call me Black."
"Well, Black… I'm here to ask you a few questions."
Lucien walked over to a nearby crate and leaned against it, posture loose but eyes sharp.
"Likewise," he replied. "You got something to drink?"
The man in white turned his head slightly.
Arven understood immediately.
He made his way back to the car, retrieved a bottle of amber liquid, and returned without a word. As he handed it over, he paused—
Just for a moment.
He had never seen this.
His master… speaking this freely. No distance. No cold detachment.
Just… conversation.
For the first time, Arven didn't feel tension.
He felt something close to relief.
The image before him—the man in white and the man in black, standing across from each other, speaking as equals—
etched itself into his mind.
Arven poured two glasses.
Lucien raised a hand, stopping him midway.
"You drink too."
Arven hesitated—his eyes instinctively shifting to his master.
A small nod.
That was enough.
He poured a third.
The three of them stood there—silent for a moment—before lifting their glasses.
They drank.
All the while, behind them, the shadow vortex twisted and churned—its distant screams bleeding into the air, warping the silence between each sip.