"Hey, Hana. Go heal his wounds," Kana said, stretching lazily.
A small, timid girl shuffled forward, fidgeting with the hem of her cloak.
"E-errm... h-humm... may I... um... p-please... t-take care of your... ah... hand..." she stuttered, barely getting the words out.
"Of course," Naoya said, smiling like losing a hand was just a normal Tuesday.
"Tch. You just got your wrist chopped off and you're still grinning like that?" Sinclair muttered, flipping her blood-knife between her fingers.
Hana placed her small hands over Naoya's wrist. A soft glow lit up — faint lines of mana moving through her skin, showing the activation of her healing stigma.
It wasn't flashy, but the bleeding stopped almost instantly, and the wrist started patching itself up neatly.
"Nothing at all," Naoya said with another grin. "I was just thinking about what kind of fun Belita must be having... with the Boss."
Bruce blinked.
Wait.
Belita?
"Hold on... Belita's here?" he blurted out.
"Obviously," Kana shrugged. "She's one of us."
Bruce's brain short-circuited.
Since when?!
Belita... that strict, scary maid... with them?!
Before he could even finish processing, the atmosphere shifted.
---
The sound of heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Clink... clink... clink...
Everyone turned.
Even Kana and Sato, who usually looked bored out of their minds, straightened up a little.
The metal door creaked open slowly, as if the air itself was holding its breath.
A tall figure stepped inside.
He wore a long, ash-gray coat that brushed the floor, and a wide-brimmed hat shadowed most of his face. Only a faint glint of his eyes could be seen from under the brim — sharp, merciless, and ancient, like he had seen things no one else had survived.
Bruce felt a chill crawl up his spine.
Who... is this guy...?
His instincts screamed louder than ever — danger, overwhelming danger.
The man's steps were calm, unhurried, yet somehow every footstep felt heavier than thunder.
He stopped right before Bruce, looming over him.
Then, in a voice so casual it made the words ten times colder, he said:
"Unfortunately for you...
We're the bad guys."
The moment the words left his mouth, the room seemed to get even darker.
Even Sinclair, who usually acted cocky, silently tightened the grip on her blood-knife.
Bruce's mind went blank.
Bad guys?
What the hell is going on here...?!
---
"Yay! The Boss is here!"
Sinclair's voice was bright and bubbly as she sprinted across the room, arms outstretched, trying to throw herself into the man's embrace like an excited child.
He didn't even look at her.
He stopped.
The room felt like it dipped several degrees in temperature. Every breath after that grew heavier.
"...I smell blood."
Sinclair's steps stuttered. Her smile dropped instantly.
"W-Well, Boss, you see… the thing is…"
Her hands wrung together, the rest of her words evaporating under his gaze.
WHAP!
She didn't even see it coming.
A slap from nowhere—no movement, no wind-up—just a sudden crack of impact that flung her sideways like a broken doll.
Sinclair hit the cold stone floor with a gasp, her cheek instantly turning red, her eyes wide with confusion and pain. There had been no gesture. Just pressure, as though the air itself had turned against her.
"What have I told you," the Boss said flatly, "about wasting blood?"
Sinclair blinked fast, trying to fight back the sting in her eyes. "...I'm sorry, Father…"
Bruce, still chained to the stretcher, grimaced. "You bastard."
The Boss calmly pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his coat and held it over his nose like a man offended by the stench of rot.
"Sinclair. Is he the one?"
Still on the floor, Sinclair slowly pushed herself up on trembling arms.
"Y-Yes, sir…"
The Boss turned to Bruce, his hat shadowing most of his face.
"I'm going to kill you. At high noon."
His voice was soft, oddly pleasant.
"Which is exactly two hours from now."
Bruce clenched his teeth. "You're out of your damn mind. Let me go."
"And why should I?"
The Boss pulled a chair beside Bruce and sat down comfortably, as though he had all the time in the world. One leg crossed, arms resting easily.
"Where's Belita?" Bruce barked.
The Boss exhaled slowly through his nose. "The puppet you mentioned? Already broken."
Bruce's breath hitched. "Where is she?! What did you do to her?!"
He struggled against the chains, the metallic clinks echoing in the room.
"Not even a question about your brother. How cold."
"Minato will end you."
The Boss only laughed, loud and wild, like thunder rolling over a battlefield. When he finished, he leaned forward just slightly.
"Sinclair. Has the blood been collected?"
She nodded shakily, still on her knees. "Y-Yes… Father…"
WHAP!
Another invisible strike. The sound of flesh meeting force again filled the air. Sinclair was flattened to the ground, a sob escaping her lips before she could stop it.
"Call me Boss in public," he said. "'Father' is for when we're alone."
She clutched her cheek, broken, trembling. "Y-Yes, Boss…"
"The key."
With slow fingers, she reached into her jacket and pulled out a gleaming silver key. It shimmered with an eerie crimson sheen.
"Forged from his blood…" she murmured.
The Boss took it like a king receiving tribute.
"Naoya," he called.
A figure appeared from the shadows.
"Lock him up with the puppet. And take this to Lovee. Tell Ajax I'll be up shortly."
"Understood."
Naoya bowed and disappeared, the key vanishing with him.
As the door creaked shut, Bruce hissed through clenched teeth.
"Whatever you freaks are planning... Minato's going to rip it all apart."
The Boss smiled.
And beside them, Sinclair trembled on the cold stone floor—hit not by a hand, but by a force that felt like God's own judgment.
---
The scent of blood clung thick in the air, iron-heavy and warm.
Narberal descended in silence, her boots landing atop a mound of fresh corpses. Her black hair, streaked with faint violet, swayed gently as if untouched by the carnage below. She straightened the hem of her maid uniform, then flicked her wrist—almost dismissively.
Nothing in her expression changed. No pride, no disgust. Just cold perfection.
A few steps away, Rika exhaled a plume of smoke, leaning against a crumbling pillar.
"Jeez," she muttered, cigarette between her lips. "You really went all in, didn't you? Still look like you just stepped out of a tea party."
Narberal said nothing. Instead, she reached into the folds of her uniform and tossed something to the ground.
It rolled, thudded—and stopped at Rika's feet.
A severed head.
Natsumi's. Her eyes were still wide open in frozen terror.
Rika stared at it for a moment, then bent down and gently closed the eyelids.
"So it really was her," she said quietly. "Tch. What a shame."
She took another drag, blowing smoke toward the ceiling, then flicked the cigarette aside.
Her eyes sharpened.
"But I guess that makes you my warm-up."
She stepped forward in a blur, boots cracking stone underfoot as she lunged. A gleaming knife slipped into her palm.
"Die, bitch!!"
Narberal didn't blink. She didn't even move.
As Rika closed the distance, Narberal calmly extended her arm and placed her palm on Rika's chest—lightly.
Just a gentle push.
Rika stumbled backward—not from the force, but from the humiliation.
Narberal's voice was ice.
"You can try to kill me," she said. "But I doubt you'll succeed."
Rika's lips curled into a sneer.
"Let's test that, porcelain freak—Poison Mist!"
She slammed her hand to the floor. Instantly, the ground cracked and hissed, releasing a thick green fog that surged outward like a living thing. It corroded stone, ate through metal, and hissed like acid on flesh.
The whole corridor vanished into the mist.
But through the toxic cloud, one silhouette stood still—unmoving.
Narberal hadn't taken a single step.
---
Sato's boots echoed against the stone floor as he dragged a battered figure in chains. His grip was firm, uncaring, and the sound of metal links scraping the ground filled the dim corridor.
It was Bruce.
His breathing was shallow, lips split and bleeding, but his eyes were burning—searching.
"Belita... Belita... Beli—"
His voice cracked with urgency as he caught sight of the cell just ahead. His steps faltered as he rushed forward, but the chains yanked him back harshly. Then he saw her.
Behind the rusted bars, Belita lay slumped in the corner of her cell. She wore nothing but a torn nightgown, stained and ripped. Her arms were chained above her, legs bound cruelly. Her porcelain skin was marred with bruises—dark purple and red—and thin cuts laced across her limbs like cruel brushstrokes. Her hair, once neat, now fell in tangled strands across her face, hiding her expression.
Bruce's heart sank.
"Belita... BELITA!!"
He took a step forward—but pain exploded in his cheek.
WHAP.
Sato's fist connected with his face, and Bruce's body twisted midair before crashing to the ground. The impact rang loud in the narrow hallway.
"Pipe down, ya little runt," Sato muttered, shaking his knuckles.
A door creaked open from deeper inside.
Out stepped a tall figure—Koji. Barefoot, shirtless under a long coat, his toned frame stretched as he yawned lazily, revealing taut muscles and a lean build carved from battle. His jet-black hair was tied loosely, a single bang hanging over his eye, and a bandage coiled around his neck like a lazy scarf.
"What's with all the ruckus, No. 9?" he asked, scratching his abs, eyes half-lidded with disinterest.
Sato shrugged, yanking Bruce back to his feet. "Boss told me to bring him here. So I'm leaving him to you, senpai."
"Alright, alright..." Koji waved a hand, already turning back toward his room. "Just get going already."
Without another word, Sato exited, the sound of his steps fading into the distance.
Koji gestured at a dusty metal bench outside the cell.
"Kid, sit there," he said, voice flat. "And don't ask me anything."
Another yawn escaped his mouth as he stretched once more and disappeared back inside, the door clicking shut behind him.
Bruce sat, fists clenched.
The silence returned—but his fury only grew louder.
---
While the crowd in the arena had roared moments ago—cheers ringing high into the darkened sky—the air turned dense as something ruptured in the center of the podium. It wasn't a fanfare. It was a warning.
A portal tore open, jagged and pulsing like a wound in reality.
Out stepped a tall figure in a long coat, face partially shadowed beneath the dim light. Behind him followed others—each one silent, each one exuding menace that coiled like smoke.
Sinclair walked in front, eyes sharp and unreadable. Sato lumbered beside her, cracking his knuckles. Naoya dragged a strange device behind him, metal scraping stone. Hana and Kana walked like mirrors—elegant, eerie, precise. Ajax adjusted his gloves, looking bored. And behind them all, with a flicker of madness in her eyes, Rika smiled as if waiting for someone to dare move.
The entire arena fell silent.
No one cheered now.
Kozuki, watching from above, smiled as the tension took root. His lips curled into a sharp grin.
"It's begun," he whispered.
Shackled Dawn had arrived—not as participants, but as a declaration.
Outsiders.
Thieves.
Bounty hunters.
Executioners.
And now, the stage was theirs.