Vanterra pulsed like a living organism. Its neon veins stretched across steel towers and glass domes, the streets below glowing in colors too sharp to be natural. Rain slicked the pavement, turning every puddle into a fractured mirror of red, blue, and green lights.
Emilia walked beside Jack, her coat collar raised against the drizzle. Her eyes swept the alleys, rooftops, and every reflection that lingered too long. The city was alive.
Jack, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, glanced at her with that half-smirk he always wore.
Jack: "You've been staring holes in every shadow since we left the tower. Are you sure that someone is watching? I mean, we just went after a kid because we thought he was a bad guy."
Emilia's expression stayed firm.
Emilia: "I can feel it. Someone's watching."
Jack chuckled under his breath, shaking his head.
Jack: "You sound like Henry. He thinks every shadow's got a knife waiting for him."
Emilia: "Because most of them do. Haven't you learned that by now?"
Jack didn't answer, but his smirk faded a little. He looked up at the towers stretching into the low clouds. Even here, away from the chaos of Neoterra Prime, the city felt… unnatural. Too loud, too bright, trying too hard to hide what it really was.
They crossed a skybridge connecting two districts. Traffic below roared like an angry river. A trio of holo-ads played simultaneously on the skyscraper across from them—Ronnie's face lit up one of them, beaming with confidence, his company logo shimmering behind him. The caption read: "Ronnie Vayndrin—A Safer Tomorrow."
Jack slowed a little, staring at it.
Jack (dryly): "A safer tomorrow, huh? Wonder if his definition of 'safe' includes blowing half a city off the map."
Emilia's eyes flicked to him.
Emilia: "Careful. Ronnie's not the problem in all of this. We can't just spit fire at him when we're pissed. What he did, lying to us, wasn't right, but still…"
Jack looked away, jaw tightening. Ronnie still made his pulse flare a little—his lie about his son and making them help him that way wasn't something he wanted to think about. Not here. Not with so many strangers around.
They descended into a lower market district, where the neon lights dimmed to softer hues. Stalls lined the streets, selling synthetic fruit, steaming bowls of broth, and cheap tech mods. The air was thick with voices bargaining, laughing, and shouting.
Emilia slowed. Her breath fogged slightly despite the heat rising from the food stalls. She turned, her eyes narrowing.
Emilia (muttering): "There it is again…"
Jack: "What?"
Emilia: "That feeling. Eyes on me. Cold. Like steel."
Jack scanned the crowd. People bustled past them, too busy living their lives to care about two strangers. But now that Emilia had said it, he felt it too—a weight pressing between his shoulder blades, a presence too deliberate to be chance.
Jack (quietly): "Alright… maybe you're not crazy."
They turned a corner into a quieter alley. The neon glow didn't reach here; it was shadow and flickering bulbs, the hum of a generator hidden behind a wall.
Emilia stopped, her hand brushing the edge of her mist as it curled faintly around her fingers.
Emilia: "Jack, if something happens—"
Jack (cutting her off, serious now): "Then we burn them down together… Haven't you learned that by now?"
Their eyes met briefly—his sharp and reckless, hers cool and calculating. For once, they agreed.
But nothing came. The alley stretched empty before them. No footsteps, no figures slipping out of the dark. Only the steady patter of rain on metal rooftops.
Jack exhaled and kicked at a can.
Jack: "Guess paranoia's contagious."
Emilia didn't answer. Her gaze lingered on the rooftops above them one last time before she turned away.
High above, perched on the neon-lit edge of a tower, a figure crouched in silence. Smoke curled from his shoulders like a living cloak, blending him perfectly into the shadows.
Harlekin (to himself, amused): "Oh, Emilia… You really do know when you're being watched. That's what makes you fun."
His knife gleamed faintly as he twirled it between his fingers.
Harlekin: "But not yet. Not yet. Every show needs its perfect stage."
Lenny and Ichiro found themselves wandering into one of those places—a broad plaza tucked between three towering holo-billboards, where the crowd had thinned to strolling couples, wandering musicians, and a few drunkards spilling out of bars.
Ichiro carried himself like always: hands loosely on the strap of his sword sheath, eyes alive with curiosity, though there was always a weight behind them, the kind that came from a name like Taketa. Lenny, on the other hand, moved with the casual swagger of someone who carried a monster inside him and still tried to act like a normal guy.
Ichiro stopped mid-stride. His eyes narrowed—not in suspicion, but fascination.
Ichiro: "Lenny. Look at that."
Across the plaza, leaning casually against a lamppost, was a tall man with blond hair that caught the neon like spun gold. Black modern glasses framed his sharp eyes. At his side rested a longsword—sleek, balanced, its crossguard marked with subtle engravings.
Arthur Morningstar adjusted his glasses with a single finger, noting the two boys without shifting his calm demeanor.
Ichiro stepped forward, unable to resist.
Ichiro: "Your sword… that's incredible."
Arthur's eyes flicked to the boy, reading him in a second—the grip on his sheath, the way his stance favored balance over aggression. A swordsman. Arthur allowed himself the faintest smile.
Arthur: "Coming from you, that means something. Your blade looks no less impressive."
Ichiro's face lit up like a kid being told his work was admired.
Ichiro: "This? It's a traditional katana." He unsheathed it just an inch, the steel gleaming under the neon glow. "Balanced, light, but sharp enough to cut through air itself."
Arthur leaned forward slightly, adjusting his glasses again.
Arthur: "Samurai steel, then. Interesting. But knights favored weight. Presence. A blade that was not only a weapon but also a wall, a standard. Like mine." He patted his sword lightly, his voice calm but brimming with quiet pride.
Lenny glanced between them, then groaned.
Lenny: "Oh no. You two are about to have one of those debates, aren't you?"
Ichiro ignored him, eyes burning with excitement.
Ichiro: "Samurai blades are faster, sharper, and more elegant. It's not about brute force; it's about precision. Control. The perfect strike."
Arthur: "And yet, knights won wars against armies, not duels in courtyards. Our swords were symbols as much as weapons. A knight's blade carried the weight of duty. Samurai chased perfection. Knights built kingdoms."
Ichiro smirked.
Ichiro: "Kingdoms fall. But perfection is eternal."
Arthur chuckled lowly at that.
Arthur: "Spoken like a young romantic. But tell me—what use is perfection if it dies with you? A knight dies; his sword inspires ten more. A samurai dies; his sword is buried with him."
Ichiro's eyes gleamed, leaning closer, almost daring Arthur.
Ichiro: "Unless the samurai's sword cuts down the knight first."
Arthur tilted his head, lips quirking.
Arthur: "And unless the knight's armor breaks the samurai's strike."
Lenny stepped between them, waving his arms.
Lenny: "Okay, okay, time out! What are we even doing here? You guys sound like nerds arguing about whose action figures are cooler."
Both Ichiro and Arthur paused, then—strangely—laughed. It wasn't mocking; it was genuine.
Arthur: "Perhaps you're right. It's rare to find someone willing to speak about blades with this much conviction."
Ichiro: "Same here. Most people don't get it."
Arthur: "I suspect we'd both enjoy a sparring match."
Ichiro grinned like a kid offered candy.
Ichiro: "Absolutely."
Arthur: "But not here. Another time."
The air between them shifted—it wasn't rivalry, but mutual recognition. Two swordsmen from different traditions, both carrying pride and skill, finding respect in the other.
Lenny sighed and muttered under his breath.
Lenny: "Great. Now I've got two sword fanatics on my hands. Just what I needed."
Ichiro laughed and clapped Lenny on the back. Arthur smiled faintly, and for a moment, the city felt less heavy.