A loud voice cut through the air outside the main tent, rough and excited.
"Whoa—that's smokin' hot! Hey, old man, whose presence was that? Let me fight him!"
Inside, the faint hum of tension shifted.
Eason Leonhart, seated comfortably with both hands resting on his cane, lifted his gaze toward the entrance. Across from him, Klaus remained still beneath his shadowy cloak, his posture relaxed—but not careless.
The tent flap was pulled open without warning.
A young man stepped in like a gust of wind that refused to slow down.
He pulled his hood back in one motion, revealing a face full of life—sharp features, sun-kissed skin, and eyes that burned with restless energy. Those eyes moved quickly, scanning everything, but they always returned to one thing: anything that looked like a challenge.
His crimson-plated armor looked light, built for movement rather than protection, and dust clung to his boots as if he had run half the distance here instead of walking. At his waist hung a sword—if it could even be called that.
The sheath itself told the story.
It wasn't shaped for a thin blade.
It was bulky, squared, almost blunt in form, as if the weapon inside had no edge meant for clean cuts or precise thrusts. It looked heavy. Crude. More like a slab of metal than a proper sword—something meant to crush rather than slice.
Eason frowned the moment he saw him.
"Loud as ever," he said, voice smooth but edged. "Must you arrive like a collapsing wall?"
The young man ignored the comment completely.
He shrugged off his cloak and tossed it toward a nearby rack. It landed poorly, half-hanging, half-slipping off.
He didn't even look.
Instead, he raised his fist, grinning widely.
"Yes! My aim's smokin' hot right now."
His eyes then locked onto Klaus.
He paused.
Squinted.
"…Huh."
He tilted his head slightly, trying to peer into the darkness beneath the cloak.
"Now that's creepy," he said, stepping closer. "No matter how I look, I can't see your face."
His grin widened.
"But I like it. Means you're strong."
He cracked his knuckles once.
"Wanna fight, brother?"
Klaus didn't move.
But the air around him shifted just a little.
Eason pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Spar," he corrected calmly. "Not fight. Do try to differentiate, you uncultured brute."
The young man waved a hand dismissively and continued walking straight toward Klaus, his steps confident—reckless.
"Spar, fight… same thing," he said. "Still ends with someone on the ground."
He stopped in front of Klaus and extended his hand, casual but firm.
"Rio Falamin," he said. "They call me Thunderous Flame."
A grin.
"Sounds smokin' hot, right?"
Klaus slowly raised his hand and took it.
"Enigma," he replied simply. "And yeah… 'smokin' hot' fits you better. You say it too much."
For a brief moment, the handshake seemed normal.
Then—
Pressure.
Rio tightened his grip, force pushing inward, testing—challenging.
Klaus responded without a word.
His fingers locked.
Strength met strength.
Subtle at first.
Then—
The shadows around Klaus's arm stirred.
Like flame without light.
A faint crackling filled the air, barely audible but sharp enough to feel. The pressure intensified, not just physical—but something deeper, heavier.
Rio's grin didn't fade.
In fact, it widened.
"Oh," he said, voice low with excitement, "now that's—"
Eason tapped his cane once.
"Enough."
The sound was light. But absolute.
The tension snapped instantly.
Rio released his grip, stepping back with a laugh.
"You're such a killjoy, old man."
Klaus lowered his hand calmly, as if nothing happened. The shadows around him settled again, quiet and still.
Eason adjusted his posture slightly.
"You should learn," he said, voice measured, "that there is a time and place for your… enthusiasm."
Rio rolled his shoulders, still grinning.
"Yeah, yeah. Talk, talk, talk."
Eason flicked his cane lightly.
A small pebble on the ground lifted, as if pulled by an unseen force. In the next second, it shot toward Rio.
Fast.
Rio reacted instantly—tilting his head just enough for the pebble to pass by his ear.
He laughed.
"Still sharp, huh?"
"Leave," Eason said. "Call the remaining Keepers. And summon the subjugator leaders and the captains. We begin shortly."
Rio waved a hand as he turned.
"Alright, alright. I'm going."
He glanced once more at Klaus, eyes gleaming.
"We'll continue this later, yeah?"
Klaus didn't answer.
But his silence felt like one.
Rio smirked and stepped out of the tent.
The flap fell back into place, and the noise outside swallowed him.
Silence returned.
For a moment.
Eason exhaled softly, then looked at Klaus.
"My apologies, Slouch," he said. "The Keepers they sent… lack refinement."
Klaus leaned back slightly.
"Call me Enigma for now," he said. "And it's fine. I've dealt with his type before."
Eason's brow lifted just a little.
"Oh?"
Klaus shrugged faintly beneath the cloak.
"Young. Loud. Always looking for a fight."
A pause.
"Got one in my group too. No two."
Eason smiled faintly.
"The young scout, and the priest, I presume?"
Klaus nodded once.
"Yeah."
Then, after a brief pause, he added,
"…and a few more like him."
Eason chuckled softly, tapping his cane against the ground.
"Well then," he said, "this campaign may prove more… entertaining than expected."
Klaus didn't respond.
But beneath the cloak—
His lips curved slightly.