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MEANWHILE... SUB-CHAPTER
Rotary Eleven Epicenter, Viscera Department, King "Smoke Shot" McGee's office
⠀
"Cheers!"
⠀
Smoke Shot raised his glass high alongside Rikolai.
⠀
"Thank you for inviting me, Smoke."
⠀
"Gyar-har! No problem. I'd offer you a cigar, but I know you quit not long ago."
⠀
"To the Spine!"
⠀
"To the Spine!!"
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⠀
7th District — Around the same time as the Argus v. Scrapyard Skirmish
⠀
"So he really trusted you that much, huh? I thought the Overseer of Euphoria would at least keep a funnier crowd," Gieffrin said, continuing to pull the sheet metal from the makeshift doorway. "But hey, you're the Sanguine Awakening, so who really cares? Even I wet my pants a little seeing a message from you, of all people, Dong-Hyeon."
⠀
NAME: DONG-HYEON — The Sanguine Awakening
AGE: 46
ARCHCONTRACT: N/A
ARCHtype: N/A
⠀
"바보야..." Dong-Hyeon whispered under his breath.
⠀
"Pardon?"
⠀
"Never mind it. You had questions about the game?"
⠀
"Of course. We can discuss more. Inside."
⠀
Gieffrin gestures Dong-Hyeon to enter the hideout of metal and debris.
⠀
"역겨운. You live here?"
⠀
"That's not what we're supposed to be discussing. I'm aware of your age, Mr. Sanguine, but this is out of the norm for you."
⠀
"..."
⠀
"Anyway, I discovered through some research about the 'Flavor of Euphoria' that the current Overseer of Euphoria had a deep connection with you, and that you played in the games before. But the question I have is why you, out of every other candidate, survived."
⠀
"Huh."
⠀
"'Huh?'"
⠀
"신이시여, 부디 제가 그의 피로 벽을 더럽히지 않게 해주소서… He and I were indeed close. But I didn't participate in the Flavor of Euphoria of my own volition. He forced me and six others to participate in them using his ARCH."
⠀
"I see... And do you know about the mysterious deaths of those six other participants?"
⠀
"...Of course I do."
⠀
"Then you're familiar with the name of the disease they all shared... Apathy Syndrome. Any player of the Flavor of Euphoria who refrains from generating RP will slowly fall into Apathy Syndrome, a state where their wills become too weak even to live."
⠀
"..."
⠀
"Unfortunately, the players you played with weren't as fortunate as I was. None of you had any clue of Apathy Syndrome, and you were the only one with enough points to survive the disease, outliving your friends and winning the game. However..."
⠀
"You're curious as to how he became the Overseer of Euphoria, and I remained? It's quite simple. Euphoria's driven by pure, random cynicism. I told him I'd flip a coin. If it landed heads, he would take the title of Overseer, tails, and I would."
⠀
"I... actually already knew that. Thanks anyway. What I'm really curious about is why you were chosen to participate in the game."
⠀
"—?"
⠀
"Well?"
⠀
Dong-Hyeon smirked. "...Fine. I'll tell you. But you should probably sit back. This is gonna be a long story."
9th District — Argus Directorates vs. Scrapyard Heap
⠀
Cembalo, Viol, Tromm Petey, Kopf Dirigent—The Scrapyard Heap Office—now stood in a line opposite Saoirse, Mori, Yuhuan, and Haddler—Argus Directorates.
⠀
"All right. So, what are the rules?" Yuhuan asked, unsheathing his yanyuedao. Mori glanced over at Pallas and Roby, who were standing off to the side. One was checking the time on his watch, the other, picking his nose.
⠀
"You two aren't fighting?" asked Mori. Dirigent spoke up for them both, "Pallas is the most qualified out of all of you to enter Adjunct-13. After all, he worked at a DaeSyndicate Adjunct for an adequate time. As for Roby, I know some people in his family who wouldn't be too happy with me preventing him from entering. Though you have clearance to enter Adjunct-13 for two members of your Post, that doesn't mean we'll let you all in."
⠀
"'All?' So how many of us would you let in with Pallas and Roby alone?" Yuhuan scoffed.
⠀
"Only four total would be able to enter. Is that the outcome you would prefer?" asked Dirigent, politely as ever.
⠀
Saoirse butted in, screaming with her sock puppets in the air. "HELL NO!! WE'RE ALL GETTIN' IN!"
⠀
Mori took a moment to think. "So two people would have to stay if we did it the easy way..." Yuhuan noticed. "That's right. But we aren't doing it the easy way. Right, Mori?" They nodded in agreement. "N-No! We aren't!"
⠀
Kopf Dirigent cleared his throat. "Now, for the rules, I say we hold one-on-one duels. Quick, easy, simple. How does that sound?"
⠀
Tromm agreed blindly. [Sounds like a plan!]
As did Viol. "Yup!"
⠀
Cembalo sighed, adjusting his coat. "Well, I was hoping we weren't actually going to have to go through with this... This is but a necessary evil." Cembalo stretched his left arm out before pulling it clean off his shoulder. There was no blood or screams of pain; his face was cold as stone. "Apologies. This was but a prosthetic of metal and wood." He tossed it behind him, not caring where it landed.
⠀
Saoirse's jaw dropped to the ground. "WHAT DOTH MINE EYES BESTOW UPON?! WIZARDRY!!"
⠀
"Again... Apologies..." Cembalo's expression was pained.
⠀
"So, Kopf. Is it all right with you if I pick the duels?" Pallas asked. "Of course, Pallas. Go ahead."
⠀
Pallas stepped forward between the two rows of fighters. "I've decided. The duels are as follows..."
⠀
CEMBALO v. YUHUAN
⠀
VIOL v. MORI
⠀
TROMM PETEY v. SAOIRSE
⠀
DIRIGENT v. HADDLER
⠀
"...Are there any problems with the current match-ups?"
⠀
"Uh, yeah?!" Haddler exclaimed. "I don't wanna fight the big scary one!"
⠀
Pallas snapped his head to face Haddler. "Shut up!"
⠀
Kopf Dirigent walked over to his designated lot in the sand, smiling at Haddler. "The quicker we get this over with, the quicker you can finish your mission and head home."
⠀
Yuhuan stood across from Cembalo, who clenched his lonely fist and held it to his chest, his silver brace shining against the sunlight. "Good luck, and remember to have fun."
⠀
Yuhuan exhaled. "The same to you."
⠀
Saoirse was mean-mugging Tromm Petey from across their lot while he made his preparations for the fight.
⠀
"WHAT'S TAKING SO LONG?!"
⠀
[I'm preparing.]
⠀
"WHY AREN'T YOU TALKING?! HUH??"
⠀
Petey sighed to himself as he filled his satchel with slingshot pellets.
⠀
Meanwhile, Viol and Mori stood frozen in their own lot. Neither of them made the first move until Roby approached. Mori noticed his presence and snapped.
⠀
"G-Get back, Roby! This is my fight!"
⠀
Roby took a step back, smiling widely. "Woah, woah! I was just checkin' to make sure you didn't get heatstroke! Hahaha! Anyways, you two'd better get to clashin' steel. Pallas and I are waiting." Roby waved them goodbye as he left their lot. His words didn't help to ease the awkward tension between the two.
⠀
"..."
⠀
Back in Haddler and Dirigent's lot, they had already begun exchanging blows. Due to their equally high combat experience, every hit was ineffective; every kick and swing was met with a fist or a well-executed block. The nosy members of Scrapyard Heap took turns watching from the sidelines before being hounded back to work by their superiors, who often stayed to watch even more of the fight themselves. After a few minutes, it was clear they had both met their match, so they relaxed and sat opposite each other to catch their breath.
⠀
Haddler sat with one leg raised to his chest, hanging his arm over it, staring intently into Dirigent's eyes with a calm smile. "So, who do you think's gonna win?"
⠀
"I've gotten older, but I've still got a whole lotta kick left in me, young man."
⠀
"Haha, I wasn't asking. I just wanted to know who you thought would win this bout!"
⠀
Dirigent's expression grew cold. "..."
⠀
"Don't wanna answer? Well then, let's get back to it!"
⠀
They both rose to their feet and flashed forward in what seemed like the speed of light.
⠀
Yuhuan and Cembalo were also in the middle of their duel, though it was pretty one-sided. Cembalo, a 4th Division Fixer, was countering every attack Yuhuan, a 9th Div, was sending his way.
⠀
"Ngh...!" Yuhuan took a sharp breath in as he braced for the heavy, metallic punch of Cembalo's fist against his side, but it didn't come.
⠀
Cembalo pulled his fist back, gazing down at the weak and vulnerable Yuhuan. "Huh. That blade and that hair... You're from Xi-Hengzhongguo, aren't you?"
⠀
"Close. I have an uncle from there, but I'm from the 4th. The Lau Pavillion."
⠀
"Is that so? Then you really do have what it takes to enter Adjunct-13. I'm sure after you complete this mission and your report is evaluated, the DaeSyndicate will give you a promotion from 9 to... possibly a 6, or 7? Your swordsmanship is impeccable for a rookie, but you just don't have the field experience."
⠀
"What? Why are you telling me this? We're in the middle of a duel!"
⠀
"You remind me of that someone I knew. The person I stayed here for."
⠀
"—?!" Yuhuan was caught off guard.
⠀
"It's all right. Let's continue. I won't attack you, but if you actually land at least ten hits on me by the time everyone else is done, I'll forfeit. Sound like a plan?"
⠀
"..."
⠀
Yuhuan looked over at the other lots before turning back to Cembalo.
⠀
"...Make it fifty!"
⠀
Yuhuan lunged forward, dragging his blade across Cembalo's cheek, opening a slit that leaked a river of red.
⠀
Cembalo felt at the wound and smiled. "Fifty."
⠀
A short distance away, in a lot marked off by two crooked rebar stakes and a length of rusted chain, Tromm Petey rolled a fire pellet between two fingers, weighing it against the ice pellet cupped in his other palm.
Saoirse stood opposite him, Stuffy raised in one fist, Arnold in the other, both socks bobbing like a pair of unruly flags.
⠀
"HEY! HEY, YOU! Slingshot boy! You just gonna stand there weighin' rocks, or are we duelin' or what?!"
⠀
[Rocks aren't rocks.]
⠀
"...Did that satchel just talk?!"
⠀
Stuffy answered for him, flat and unimpressed. "...No, you imbecile... His mouth doesn't move because he's not talking with it... Look at his hands, dummy..."
⠀
Saoirse squinted. Petey's fingers moved in short, precise little flicks. Not quite sign language, not quite anything Saoirse had a name for, but Stuffy seemed to be reading it just fine.
⠀
"...Huh?! That's not fair! I can't understand hand-speak!"
⠀
Arnold, incensed on her behalf, thrust upward. "CHEATER!! HE'S CHEATIN' WITH SECRET HAND-SPEAK!! SAOIRSE, BITE HIM!!"
⠀
"WAIT, WHAT DID HE SAY THOUGH?!"
⠀
Stuffy sighed the sigh of a puppet who had already lived several lifetimes too many. "...He said 'rocks aren't rocks'... He means the pellets, dolt... Pay attention..."
⠀
Petey didn't wait for the translation to finish. His slingshot, a simple wooden Y-frame wrapped in worn leather, was already rising, the fire pellet notched and drawn taut.
⠀
The pellet loosed with a sharp thwip, trailing a hiss of orange sparks.
⠀
Saoirse yelped and threw herself sideways, rolling through the dirt as the pellet detonated behind her in a gout of flame that licked at the chain marking the edge of the lot. The metal glowed dull red where the fire kissed it.
⠀
"HEY!! THAT COULDA TOASTED ME!!"
⠀
[That was the idea.]
⠀
"You're a lot meaner than you look, y'know that?!"
⠀
Petey said nothing. He simply reloaded; this time, the pellet in his palm was pale blue, faintly steaming with cold, and let it fly.
⠀
Saoirse, still recovering her footing from the dodge, wasn't fast enough. The ice pellet struck her boot, and a lattice of frost crawled up from her ankle to her knee in an instant, locking her leg in place like she'd been poured into concrete.
⠀
"WH—HEY! MY LEG!! MY LEG WON'T MOVE!!"
⠀
Stuffy, unbothered. "...Should've dodged that one too... Honestly, at this rate, we're going to lose... Might as well give up now and save us both the embarrassment..."
⠀
"WHAT?! NO WAY!!"
⠀
Arnold reared back like he was about to headbutt something. "DON'T LISTEN TO STUFFY, HE'S A DOWNER!! WE'RE GONNA WRECK HIM!! CHARGE, SAOIRSE!! CHAAAARGE!!"
⠀
"...Charging would require the use of both of her legs, which she does not currently have..." Stuffy muttered.
⠀
Petey watched all of this with the mild, patient look of a man watching weather roll in. He notched a second fire pellet, aiming carefully for the frozen leg, a finishing blow, cold met with heat, to shatter the ice and the girl trapped in it all at once.
⠀
He never got the chance to fire it.
⠀
Saoirse, ice or no ice, wrenched her captured leg free with a sound like a tree splitting, chunks of frost exploding outward, and lunged, closing the entire gap between them in one motion that had no business coming from a girl standing in a block of ice half a second prior.
⠀
Petey's eyes—the only truly expressive part of his face—went wide.
⠀
The slingshot went flying from his hands as Saoirse's palm, wrapped in the fraying purple sock that was Stuffy, connected with his wrist. Arnold, on her other hand, followed a half-beat later with a haymaker that Petey barely managed to duck beneath, feeling the wind of it ruffle through the layers of his hair.
⠀
[You're fast.]
⠀
"'Course I am! Stuffy an' Arnold make me fast when I let 'em! Puppet power, baby!!"
⠀
"...I never said we make you fast..." Stuffy corrected, deadpan. "...I said we make you committed... There's a difference... You're just now too stubborn to feel your own bones breaking..."
⠀
"MY BONES AREN'T BREAKING, ARE THEY?!"
⠀
Petey used the distraction, Saoirse arguing with her own hands, to scramble back and snatch a fresh pellet from his satchel, one of each color, one in each palm. He didn't have room to aim properly anymore. Not at this range. So he didn't aim at all; he simply slammed both fists together, crushing fire and ice pellet alike between them.
⠀
The result was neither hot nor cold, but a violent, hissing burst of steam that rolled outward in a wall of white, swallowing the whole lot from view. Roby, watching from the sidelines, whistled low. "Ooooh, that's a new one. Didn't know he could do that."
⠀
Pallas, checking his watch without looking up, said nothing at all.
⠀
From inside the steam, muffled and echoing—
⠀
"OW! OW! HOT! COLD! HOT AGAIN! WHY IS IT BOTH?!"
⠀
[Hold still and it'll only be one.]
⠀
"NOT HELPFUL!"
⠀
When the steam finally thinned, Petey was on one knee, breathing hard, his slingshot recovered but his satchel of pellets scattered and half-empty across the dirt. Saoirse stood over him, both socks raised triumphantly, her sleeves and half her hair singed at the edges, one boot still crusted white with the ghost of frost.
⠀
"...I concede," Petey said — the first time he'd spoken with an actual, audible voice all fight, quiet and a little raspy, like he rarely used it at all. "You hit harder than you look like you should."
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Saoirse blinked. "Wh—You CAN talk?!"
⠀
"When it matters."
⠀
Arnold cackled, doing a little victory shimmy on her fist. "WE WON!! WE WON!! TAKE THAT, HAND-SPEAK BOY!!"
⠀
Stuffy, for once, said nothing, which, from Stuffy, was as close to a compliment as anyone was going to get.
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—————————————————————————————————————
⠀
In the lot beside them, Viol and Mori still hadn't moved.
⠀
Two curved swords hung loosely in Viol's grip, one in each hand, the polished steel throwing back the midday sun in twin flashes. He twirled the left one absently, more out of habit than showmanship, though it looked like showmanship all the same.
⠀
Mori stood across from him, revolver drawn but pointed at the ground, both hands wrapped around the grip like it might try to leave without him.
⠀
"You gonna shoot me, or should I come to you?" Viol asked, grinning.
⠀
"I-I don't want to hurt you," Mori said.
⠀
Viol laughed, short and sharp. "That's cute. C'mon, rookie. 'Least give me a reason to sweat."
⠀
He didn't wait for an answer. He closed the distance in three long strides, both blades arcing in from opposite sides in a scissoring cut that would've taken Mori's head clean off if he hadn't thrown himself backward into the dirt, firing wildly as he fell. The shot went wide, chewing a divot out of the ground a full body-length from Viol's boot.
⠀
"Ha! See, that's the problem with guns," Viol said, already closing again, blades weaving a bright, restless pattern in front of him. "Gotta aim 'em. Swords just gotta go where I put 'em."
⠀
Mori scrambled up, firing again; this one clipped Viol's shoulder, tearing fabric but nothing else, and Viol didn't so much as flinch.
⠀
"That the best you got?"
⠀
Mori's hands were shaking. Not from fear of losing... but from fear of what would happen if he actually landed a clean hit. He remembered the dummy back at the range. He remembered the ninth bullet. He remembered Qiang's face when he'd explained it.
⠀
Just don't lose control, he told himself. Just— don't.
⠀
Viol read the hesitation like a book left open on a table. He surged in low, both swords crossing in an X in front of him before snapping outward. Mori barely got the revolver up in time to catch one blade on the barrel, sparks screaming off the metal, but the second blade slid past his guard entirely and opened a shallow line across his forearm.
⠀
"Ngh—!"
⠀
"There we go!" Viol crowed. "See, this is what I'm talkin' about! Feel that? That's a real fight!"
⠀
Mori staggered back, clutching his arm, blood welling thin and dark between his fingers. He fired twice more, both shots wild, both missing by a mile, and Viol didn't even bother dodging the second one. He just let it whistle past his ear, grinning the whole time.
⠀
"You're better than this. I can tell. You're just scared of your own gun." Viol spun his blades once, a lazy showman's flourish. "Which, hey, fair. I heard some rumors about you. Somethin' about a KKA-level thing crawlin' around under your skin."
⠀
Mori's breath caught.
⠀
"...Where'd you hear that?"
⠀
"Word travels. Point is—" Viol lunged again, faster this time, both blades weaving a shape too complex for Mori to track, and this time three separate cuts landed in the span of a second and a half, opening thin lines across Mori's shoulder, hip, and cheek before he could even raise his weapon. "—you keep fightin' like you're scared of hurtin' me, and I'm just gonna keep hurtin' you. Simple math."
⠀
Mori dropped to one knee, breathing hard, blood tracing thin red lines down his jaw.
⠀
Roby, from the sidelines, winced. "Damn! That boy's gettin' carved up."
⠀
"He's not dead." Pallas said, still watching his watch.
⠀
"Yet." Roby added, cheerfully unhelpful.
⠀
Viol raised both swords for what looked like a finishing pass, not aiming to kill, not in a duel like this, but certainly aiming to end it, and that was when Mori, out of pure desperation, threw himself forward under the swing instead of back, closing the distance Viol hadn't expected him to close, and slammed the butt of his revolver up into Viol's right wrist with everything he had left.
⠀
It wasn't a graceful hit. It wasn't even a smart hit, by any technical measure. But it landed exactly where Viol's grip was weakest, at the exact moment his weight was already committed forward, and the sword, the left one in his dominant hand, spun out of his fingers and skittered across the dirt, coming to rest a good ten feet away.
⠀
Silence.
⠀
Viol stared at his empty left hand as though it belonged to someone else.
⠀
"...Huh."
⠀
"S-Sorry! I didn't mean—" Mori started, already backing away, bracing for retaliation.
⠀
But Viol wasn't retaliating. Viol was just standing there, flexing his empty fingers, an expression on his face that Mori couldn't place. Not anger. Not even surprise, not really. Something closer to a man remembering a word that had been sitting on the tip of his tongue for years.
⠀
He looked down at the remaining sword in his right hand. Turned it over once. Twice. Settled into a stance Mori had never seen him use. Narrower, lower, both feet square instead of staggered, the blade held close to his body instead of swept wide for show.
⠀
"...I always fought with two," Viol said, mostly to himself. "Cembalo trained me that way. Told me a second blade doubles your options. Never once told me it was halvin' somethin' else."
⠀
"...What?"
⠀
Viol didn't answer. He just moved.
⠀
And this time, it was nothing like before. Where the two-sword Viol had been fast, flashy, spinning through wide showman's arcs meant to be watched, this Viol was economical. Every motion trimmed down to the shortest possible distance between his blade and Mori's throat. He crossed the lot in a blink, and Mori, already off-balance from his own lucky strike, barely got the revolver up before the flat of the remaining blade cracked across his knuckles, sending the gun spinning from his grip.
⠀
"H-Hey—!"
⠀
Viol didn't stop. A backhand slash forced Mori to throw himself sideways; a follow-up thrust, faster than the first two attacks combined, opened a fresh line across Mori's ribs before he'd even finished falling. He hit the ground hard, rolled, came up without his gun, without his footing, without much of anything left to work with.
⠀
"See, I coulda done this the whole time," Viol said, and for the first time all fight, he didn't sound like he was showing off. He sounded almost sad about it. "One blade. Just one. Guess I never trusted myself enough to drop the second."
⠀
He raised the sword.
⠀
Mori, on his back in the dirt, out of ammo in reach, bleeding from four separate places, felt something in his chest crack open.
⠀
Not again. Not again, not again, not—
⠀
It wasn't a decision. It was never a decision, not with this. The pressure came first... A building, suffocating weight behind his ribs, the same one he'd felt in the hallway outside the Female Quarters, the same one that had once put a rifle made of black flame in his control and pointed it at a boy he considered a friend.
⠀
A dark, crimson aura began bleeding out from Mori's collapsed form, wisping upward like smoke off a dying fire, curling and thickening in the air above him.
⠀
Viol's raised sword froze mid-swing.
⠀
"...The hell is that?"
⠀
The aura kept building. Kept coiling, winding itself tighter and tighter into a shape Mori himself couldn't see, could only feel, the way you feel a fever behind your eyes before it breaks. A long, dark barrel began forming out of the crimson smoke, low and level, aimed without Mori aiming it at all.
⠀
Directly at Viol.
⠀
"Mori—?! H-Hey! MORI!"
⠀
Yuhuan's voice rang out from across the field, but he was too far, mid-duel with Cembalo, unable to close the distance in time.
⠀
Mori's eyes had gone glassy, unfocused, his lips moving around words that weren't quite his own. The ticking started. Faint, at first, then louder, the same sound Mitchell's nakiri used to make, the same sound that meant something was about to detonate whether anyone wanted it to or not.
⠀
Viol didn't move. Couldn't, really. Some animal part of his brain understood, even without understanding why, that this was no longer a duel. This was a live wire someone had dropped in the sand next to him, and there was nowhere left to run.
⠀
Tick.
⠀
⠀
⠀
Then the world simply... stopped.
⠀
Not slowed. Not paused in the way a held breath pauses. Stopped. Mid-motion, mid-sound, the crimson smoke frozen in a perfect, unmoving curl, a single mote of dust hanging motionless in the air an inch from Viol's nose, the tick cut off between one syllable and the next like a needle lifted from a record.
⠀
Into that frozen silence walked Kopf Dirigent, twirling a slim black baton between two fingers, his footsteps the only sound in the entire, unmoving world.
⠀
ARCH: Grand Pause
Threat Level: Unclassified — data withheld pending further review
Associated Individual: Kopf Dirigent (Scrapyard Heap Office)
Ability: Grants its contracted holder complete authority over the flow of time within a bounded radius, freezing all motion, sound, and causality the instant a baton wielded by them is raised. The contracted holder alone remains unbound, free to move, act, and, as its name suggests, conduct the frozen moment like a held note, accelerating or decelerating the world's tempo at will once time resumes. Its origins, and the nature of the ARCH itself, remain absent from all DaeSyndicate records.
⠀
"My apologies for the intrusion," Dirigent said, to no one who could hear him yet. "But I'm afraid I can't allow this particular measure to land."
⠀
He crossed the frozen lot at an unhurried pace, stepping around the hanging mote of dust, around Viol's rigid, terrified stance, until he stood beside Mori's motionless, glassy-eyed form. He studied the crimson barrel a moment, the way a conductor might study an orchestra about to come in a half-beat too early and too loud.
⠀
"There, there," he murmured, and raised the baton.
⠀
He didn't stop the shot. Stopping it outright, he would later explain, would only make it detonate the instant time resumed, all that built-up pressure with nowhere left to go. Instead, he conducted it, drawing the baton down slow, achingly slow, like calming a room full of brass that wanted to come in fortissimo. The crimson barrel, still frozen to the eye but no longer frozen to whatever unseen current fed it, began to dim, its ticking, when Dirigent allowed a sliver of time back into the world just long enough to hear it, dropping from a frantic allegro to a settling, sighing largo.
⠀
He reached out and gently, almost tenderly, closed his hand over the barrel of crimson smoke, and it came apart in his grip like ash.
⠀
Only then did he turn to Viol, still frozen mid-flinch, and haul him bodily out of the line of fire, laying him a safe ten feet clear in the dirt.
⠀
"You've done well today," Dirigent told the frozen boy, who could not hear him yet. "Rest easy."
⠀
He lowered the baton.
⠀
⠀
⠀
Time resumed all at once. The mote of dust completed its fall, the tick cut off into silence, and Mori's crimson aura collapsed into nothing at all, as if it had never been there.
⠀
Viol blinked, found himself lying in the dirt ten feet from where he'd been standing, and let out a breath that shook the whole way out of him.
⠀
"...What just—"
⠀
"You lost consciousness for a moment there," Dirigent said smoothly, already several paces away, hands folded behind his back. "Understandable, given the intensity of the bout. I believe this match is Argus Directorates'."
⠀
Mori, still on his knees, stared at his own trembling hands like he didn't recognize them.
⠀
"...Did I— was he—?"
⠀
"He's fine," Dirigent said, gentler now, crouching briefly to meet Mori's eyes. "Whatever that was, it never landed. You've nothing to carry from this but the bruises you earned honestly."
⠀
He didn't say the rest of what he was thinking—that whatever lived under this boy's skin was going to be a problem for someone, someday, if it wasn't already a problem for Mori himself, every single day. That wasn't a conversation for a dueling lot in the 9th District. He simply straightened and walked away.
⠀
—————————————————————————————————————
⠀
Kopf Dirigent's own lot had, in the meantime, been sitting in a very strange kind of silence.
⠀
Haddler stood exactly where he'd been standing, mid-swing, fist half-cocked, staring at the empty space where his opponent had been a half-second—or, depending on how you counted it, several full minutes—ago.
⠀
When Dirigent reappeared directly in front of him, baton already tucked away somewhere inside his coat, Haddler nearly swung on reflex before catching himself.
⠀
"Wh—Where the hell did you—?"
⠀
"My apologies," Dirigent said, bowing his head slightly. "A matter required my attention elsewhere."
⠀
"You just- You were RIGHT THERE. I didn't even see you move!"
⠀
"I didn't, from your perspective. Time simply continued without you noticing its absence." Dirigent smiled, the kind of small, tired smile of a man who'd explained this same thing more times than he cared to count. "It's a difficult thing to describe to someone who's never experienced it. I find it easier to simply apologize and move on."
⠀
Haddler lowered his fists slowly, red eyes narrowing with something between suspicion and grudging fascination. "An ARCH."
⠀
"It is."
⠀
"Didn't figure Scrapyard Heap folk had contracts."
⠀
"We don't, as a rule." Dirigent's expression flickered, just briefly, with something old and private. "I am something of an exception to several rules."
⠀
Haddler considered pressing further, considered it hard, actually, his fingers already twitching toward the key to a certain briefcase, but something in Dirigent's tone told him this wasn't the day for that conversation.
⠀
"...Fine. So, we finishing this, or what?"
⠀
Dirigent shook his head, and to his credit, he looked genuinely regretful about it. "I don't believe that would be fair to you. I stepped away from our bout without so much as a warning, which by any measure is a forfeit on my part. I'd rather concede honestly than pretend otherwise."
⠀
"Huh." Haddler rolled his shoulders back, working out a kink from holding the same position too long. "You're a weird one, Dirigent. Most folks'd take the free win and not think twice."
⠀
"Most folks aren't required to answer to me afterward," Dirigent said, and there was just enough weight behind it that Haddler decided not to ask what that meant either.
⠀
"...Well. Guess Judgment doesn't get to weigh in today." Haddler patted the key in his pocket, almost fondly, like reassuring a friend they'd get their turn eventually. "Was lookin' forward to askin' you a real good question with it, too."
⠀
"Perhaps another time," Dirigent said, and meant it.
⠀
—————————————————————————————————————
⠀
Back in the center lot, Yuhuan was on hit number thirty-one.
⠀
"Thirty-two," he counted aloud, breath ragged, as his blade drew a fresh line across Cembalo's already-scored forearm.
⠀
"Indeed," Cembalo agreed, not moving to block. "Your form's tightened up considerably since we began. Good."
⠀
Yuhuan didn't answer. He didn't have the breath to spare. He'd stopped bothering to conserve his strength somewhere around hit twenty, and now his whole body ran hot and loose, the yanyuedao feeling less like a weapon and more like an extension of his own furious pulse. He came in low, a sweeping cut aimed at Cembalo's thigh—thirty-three—pivoted immediately into a rising slash across the ribs—thirty-four—and a final downward chop that Cembalo actually had to step back from, more out of respect for the momentum than any real threat—a clean miss, no count.
⠀
"You're getting faster," Cembalo noted. "Careful. Faster isn't always better, not against someone patient."
⠀
"Shut— up—" Yuhuan gasped, lunging again, blade catching Cembalo's shoulder—thirty-five. "—and let me— focus—"
⠀
"Apologies."
⠀
From the sidelines, the noise of the other three duels concluding had drawn a small crowd of Scrapyard Heap grunts, murmuring amongst themselves, some outright cheering for Yuhuan now that the outcome of the other three lots had made the shape of things fairly clear. Roby, ever the opportunist, was already collecting bets.
⠀
"C'mon, c'mon, who's got money on forty-something? Odds are good, folks, odds are real good—"
⠀
Pallas, watching the duel with something that might have been the ghost of a smile, finally spoke. "He won't make fifty."
⠀
"Wanna bet on it?" Roby grinned.
⠀
"I don't gamble."
⠀
"Boo. Lame."
⠀
Yuhuan, unaware of the commentary, pressed his advantage. Cembalo had begun, almost imperceptibly, to slow. Not from exhaustion, not with a body half made of silver and hinge-work, but from something quieter. He was watching Yuhuan's eyes now more than his blade, the same way he might've watched a fire he'd started on purpose and was only now beginning to wonder if he wanted to put out.
⠀
Thirty-six. Thirty-seven. A clean double-strike, wrist then collarbone—thirty-eight, thirty-nine.
⠀
"You remind me more of him with every hit you land," Cembalo said, quiet enough that only Yuhuan could hear it. "He fought like this too. Like the whole world owed him one more swing."
⠀
"Who—" Yuhuan managed, between breaths, forty— "—are you talking about—"
⠀
"Someone I lost a long time ago, in a place not so different from this one." Cembalo's cold expression cracked, just slightly, into something almost fond. "I told myself I'd never train anyone the way I trained him again. And then Viol showed up, mouthy and reckless and twice as stubborn as he needed to be, and I broke that promise before I even noticed I was breaking it."
⠀
Forty-one. Forty-two.
⠀
Yuhuan didn't understand what any of it meant, not fully, but something about the way Cembalo said it... Steady, unhurried, a man setting down a weight he'd carried so long he'd forgotten it had a shape... made him ease off, just slightly, his next strike landing softer than the ten before it.
⠀
"You don't have to hold back on my account," Cembalo said, smiling faintly. "Forty-three, by the way. You're close."
⠀
Yuhuan's jaw tightened. He didn't know this man's ghosts, didn't know why a story about someone else had knocked the wind half out of him worse than any of Cembalo's own attacks had all fight. But he understood, at least, that Cembalo wasn't fighting to win anymore, hadn't been for a while now, maybe hadn't ever really been.
⠀
He lunged. Forty-four. Forty-five. A flurry now, both of them moving faster than careful counting really allowed for, blade flashing silver-white in the afternoon sun, Cembalo's silver brace ringing out each time it failed to intercept in time.
⠀
Forty-six. Forty-seven. Forty-eight.
⠀
The crowd had gone properly loud now, chanting the count along with every landed blow, Roby included, all his betting forgotten in favor of just watching.
⠀
Forty-nine.
⠀
Yuhuan planted his back foot, drew the yanyuedao back in both hands, and drove it forward in one final, screaming arc that Cembalo—for the first time all fight—actually stepped fully into, rather than away from, letting the flat of the blade crack across his chest with a force that staggered him half a step backward.
⠀
Fifty.
⠀
Silence.
⠀
Cembalo touched his chest, where the blade had struck, and laughed. A short, warm, genuinely surprised sound, nothing like the cold precision he'd worn all afternoon.
⠀
"Fifty," he agreed. "A deal's a deal."
⠀
He lowered his silver brace, and, with the same casual motion he'd used to remove his prosthetic arm at the start of the skirmish, reached up and unclasped something else — a thin, tarnished ring from around his own finger, half-hidden beneath the brace all along — and pressed it into Yuhuan's exhausted, bloodied palm.
⠀
"What—"
⠀
"Keep it. Or don't. I've held onto it long enough that I think it's earned the right to belong to someone who still has fights left worth having." Cembalo turned away before Yuhuan could ask anything further, raising his voice to address the field at large. "Scrapyard Heap concedes this lot. Argus Directorates."
⠀
—————————————————————————————————————
⠀
The four lots settled into a single, sprawling quiet as word spread across the field.
⠀
CEMBALO v. YUHUAN — Argus Directorates
VIOL v. MORI — Argus Directorates
TROMM PETEY v. SAOIRSE — Argus Directorates
DIRIGENT v. HADDLER — Forfeit, Argus Directorates
⠀
Saoirse threw both puppeted fists into the air the second the tally was clear, screaming loud enough that a few of the Scrapyard grunts actually covered their ears.
⠀
"WE DID IT!! WE DID IT, WE DID IT, WE—" She rounded on the nearest patch of empty air, jabbing a finger at nothing in particular. "—TAKE THAT, WHOEVER SAID WE COULDN'T ALL GET IN!!"
⠀
"That was Kopf, ma'am," Roby offered helpfully.
⠀
"TAKE THAT, KOPF!!"
⠀
Kopf Dirigent, standing at the center of the field with his hands folded neatly behind his back, only smiled and inclined his head in something between a bow and a shrug of genuine, gracious defeat.
⠀
"Four for four," he said. "I did say I'd only allow four total to enter, if I recall correctly — Pallas and Roby included. It seems, however, that circumstances have rendered that condition somewhat moot."
⠀
"So we're ALL gettin' in?!" Saoirse demanded, practically vibrating.
⠀
"All four of you, yes." Dirigent glanced toward Pallas and Roby, who exchanged a look. Pallas unreadable as ever, Roby already grinning, like Christmas had come early. "And these two besides, as was always the arrangement. Six, in total, cleared for entry into Adjunct-13."
⠀
Yuhuan, still catching his breath, the tarnished ring now tucked carefully into his uniform's pocket, looked over at Mori, pale, shaking faintly, but upright, and very much alive. Then he looked over at Haddler, who was already needling Dirigent about a rematch someday, and then at Saoirse, still shouting triumphant nonsense at the sky.
⠀
"...Adjunct-13," Yuhuan repeated, mostly to himself, feeling the weight of the word settle somewhere he hadn't expected it to. Whatever waited for them past that name, they were walking into it together, all four of them, exactly as they'd fought to.
⠀
Kopf Dirigent produced a small, folded map from inside his coat and held it out toward the group, his expression, for just a moment, losing all of its earlier warmth.
⠀
"I'd suggest you rest before you go in," he said quietly. "Whatever you're expecting to find down there, I promise you, it's worse."
⠀
Cembalo, standing a short distance off with one hand pressed to the fresh bruise across his chest, said nothing at all, only watched the six of them with an expression that looked, more than anything, like grief wearing the shape of hope.
⠀
As the Argus Directorates rested in the inn forged from metal and iron, they could hear the tune of a resolute medley whistling into their rooms. It was a composition made to say "farewell" and "goodbye," without having to say it. Mori listened closely to the tune late into the night, making out each instrument.
⠀
A violin and viola that were being played at the same time.
⠀
A trombone and trumpet, being played by one person, swapping out every few measures.
⠀
A piano—No—A harpsichord. The sound was distinct.
⠀
And of course, for the music to be played so perfectly, the music had to be orchestrated by a masterful conductor.